Chapter 5. Rain.

Hardin's performance was not remembered by almost any of his friends - and not because he sang badly: considering the state of the singer, the performance was brilliant. All the thoughts of each of the men were occupied by Florence, and for the stage there was neither attention nor strength. They organized a watch near the girl, although they had no idea what to do — and the fact that at least something had to be done would have been understandable to any tree that fringed the Yasgur field. Charlie had a thought to go for help to the tent to Wavi Gravi, the leader of the Hog farm commune, but as soon as he looked at the field where people literally stood, sat and lay in a variety of poses, they immediately disappeared from his head also appeared.

Florence itself gradually fell into a strange oblivion, being between two realities. The sharp pain from the contractions turned into a dull-aching and acquired a reddish tinge, breaking out of its nature with small geysers to the beat of the music, reaching it as if through a veil of cotton. In her own mind, she lay on the border of water and sand in total hot darkness, opening her mouth wide from lack of air; a strange fire burned it from the inside, and invisible waves with a quiet rustle penetrated it. Each new wave was rising higher and higher in the body, and the girl instinctively was afraid that she was about to bury her under herself. But each time the wave did not reach a few inches to the top of the crown and went back in strange pushes. Sometimes, in the darkness around her, colors began to whirl, and Florence whispered: "Rainbow ... rainbow ..."

... Stewart gently freed his hand from the girl's tenacious fingers and stretched his hand.

- Well, how is she? - overtook his whisper Lewis.

“She has a ward,” the guy said. - Let it be better this way ...

“Better that way,” Lewis grumbled. - Who is better?

“Shut up you wise guy,” Molly snapped at him. - And really before it was necessary to think ...

Suddenly, gurgling sounds came from Florence's throat, as if the girl was choking with something. Stewart, frightened, lifted her head, and at the same moment slime fell on him - the girl vomited. He felt a bottle of water to wash her face and at the same time put himself in order, when he felt something dripping down on his hand. Once again ... a couple more times ... Understanding nothing, Stewart stretched out his palm, which was immediately covered with a grid of small drops.

“Is it rain?” - as if from afar Luis' voice reached him.

“Well your mother ...” Charlie swore. - This is still not enough ... - He raised himself, took off his jacket and handed it to Stewart: - Take it for Flo. Maybe you can think of something.

The guy thoughtfully turned the jacket over, then carefully looked at the girl. She lay in a semi-unconscious state and hard, with anguish and wheezing breathing - her every breath as if pulled out from under a pile of boulders, giving Florence with incredible difficulty. From time to time a moan broke through his teeth, coming from its very essence. Not inventing anything better, Stewart wiped her face and forehead, moistened her lips, and covered her head with a jacket; then I was distracted for a minute, attracted by the unusual sounds that came from the stage.

He did not notice how the performer changed. In a sharp bright bright spot in the middle of a summer rainy evening, one could see a short man sitting right on the stage and with the skill of a fakir who was extracting glass Oriental thoughtful sounds from a sitar. Stewart guessed that this was Ravi Shankar, and listened with double attention. Gradually, the world began to blur around, and the guy found himself in an incomprehensible, warm, slightly humid emptiness, in which strange meditative music sounded from all sides. For him, the sense of time is completely gone.He even forgot about the girl who suffers next to him - he completely disappeared into the sitar, turning into an embryo, which was still to be born into this world. And for a moment, he seemed to see everything from the side: a summer evening, a silent crowd of thousands of people sitting in the drizzling rain, in which silvery threads sounded mysterious in their high wisdom sounds ... If ever in life, not in Dali’s fantasies, and surrealism existed, it was presented in all its glory precisely at this truly magnificent moment filled with metaphors and allegories.

The rain intensified, then weakened again. And, as if in unison with him, Shankar's instrumental was then accelerated, stirring up imagination and nerves, then slowed down again, releasing man to the will of the flow of Eternity. It seemed that the whole Universe was getting ready to be born again - in the New World, to the oriental music that sounded in the rain. Everything was symbolic - like in a temple, during a religious rite. And the greatest embodiment of the new life, born in front of everyone, was a fragile pretty girl who should have been in the old as the world itself, in the throes of a new life. And everything blessed her for this feat — both rain and music ... The rain cleared, and music calmed the inevitable pain. It suddenly seemed to Stewart that this is the last act of world pain, that after today everything will be completely different - life, love, songs, and even childbirth. And to change all this was to be a new Eve - a new life. V ita nova.

“No, anyway, something will change,” the guy said to himself. - It can not all remain the same after this. It should not all remain the same. It simply has no right to be as before ... "

And the rain intensified once again. And suddenly the music, and with it, and all the threads of magic suddenly broke off. The guy looked at the stage and saw Ravi Shankar standing up and apologized to everyone for having to interrupt his performance - “You see, I am afraid to wet the sitar. The rain is too heavy, and if my sitar is very wet, I will not be able to play on it later ... ". Listeners burst into understanding grateful applause, the Indian bowed, joining his hands in front of his forehead, and left the stage.

At this time, Florence grabbed Stuart's hand and hoarsely, cried out in her womb. Echoing it, somewhere over Wallquillam, there was a hollow rumble, and after a couple of seconds, in the same direction, a flash of lightning struck the sky sharply, like a photo flash.

* * *

10.20 p.m. August 15

- Mel, how are you? In order? How did you get there? Can you sing

A small, frail, dark-haired girl, almost a child, with an expressive East Slavic face, on which a funny nose of potatoes and huge black eyes, which have absorbed almost the whole world, stand out, trying to say something, but instead comes a dry, tearful cough. In the intervals between attacks, you can hear your teeth chattering.

- Michael, well, what "sing"? - A young woman with a soulful, strong-willed, as if passionate, slightly elongated face interferes in the conversation. “Just look at her - can she even sing at all now?”

“Joan, I have no other choice,” as Michael Lang justifies himself. - Englishmen from "Incredible“Just refused to speak. Like, not the weather for them, and in general they do not want to spoil the gimbri and disrupt the voices. - Lang sniffs dismissively. - And we are already out of the schedule. We don't have half of the invitees, if I stop the concert now, understand? Let the folk singers come out or something ...

- Do you need someone to sing? Let me go.

“Joan, you will be the last to go.” You have just returned from the "small stage". Take a break. Especially in your position ... Mel, how are you? Are you cold? What's the matter?

The girl tries to say something, but instead only shakes her head and again comes into the next fit of coughing. Joan energetically shows his hand toward the field:

- Look there, Michael. Do you see how many people are there? And you think that we are all so cool here that our knees do not shake in front of them? Did this girl ever see so many people at her concert? She just got excited.

- Hey, anyone! ...