"George Alec Effinger - Marid and the Trail of Blood" - читать интересную книгу автора (Effinger George Alec)

Mar├оd and the Trail of Blood (v1.1)

George Alec Effinger, 1995




There is a saying: "The Budayeen hides from the light." You can interpret that any way you
like, but I'm dissolute enough to know exactly what it means. There's a certain time of day
that always makes me feel as if my blackened soul were just then under the special scrutiny
of Allah in Paradise.
It happens in the gray winter mornings just at dawn, when I've spent the entire night
drinking in some awful hellhole. When I finally decide it's time to go home and I step outside,
instead of the cloaking forgiveness of darkness, there is bright, merciless sun shining on my
aching head.
It makes me feel filthy and a little sick, as if I'd been wallowing in a dismal gutter all night. I
know I can get pretty goddamn wiped out, but I don't believe I've ever sunk to wallowing; at
least, I don't remember it if I did. And all the merchants setting up their stalls in the souks, all
the men and women rising for morning prayers, they all glare at me with that special
expression: they know exactly where I've been. They know I'm drunk and irredeemable. They
give freely of contempt that they've been saving for a long time for someone as depraved and
worthless as me.
This is not even to mention the disapproving expression on Youssef's face last Tuesday,
when he opened the great wooden front door at home. Or my slave, Kmuzu. Both of them
knew enough not to say a word out loud, but I got the full treatment from their attitudes,
particularly when Kmuzu started slamming down the breakfast things half an hour later. As if I
could stand to eat. All I wanted to do was collapse and sleep, but no one in the household
would allow it. It was part of my punishment.
So that's how this adventure began. I reluctantly ate a little breakfast, ignored the large
quantity of orders, receipts, ledgers, and other correspondence on my desk, and sat back in a
padded leather chair wishing my mortal headache would go away.
Now, when I first had my brain wired, I was given a few experimental features. I can chip in
a device that makes my body burn alcohol faster than the normal ounce an hour; last night
had been a contest between me and my hardware. The liquor won. I could also chip in a
pain-blocking daddy, but it wouldn't make me any more sober. For now, in the real world, I
was as sick as a plague-stricken wharf rat.
I watched a holoshow about a sub-Saharan reforestation program, with the sound turned
off. Before it was over, I lied to myself that I felt just a tiny bit better. I even pretended to
act friendly toward Kmuzu. I forgave him, and I forgave myself for what I'd done the night
before. I promised both of us that I'd never do it again.
I laughed; Kmuzu didn't. He turned his back and walked out of the room without saying a
word.
It was obvious to me that it wasn't a good day to spend around the house. I decided to go
back to the Budayeen and open my nightclub at noon, a little early for the day shift. Even if I
had to sit there by myself for a couple of hours, it would be better company than I had at
home.
About 12:15, Pualani, the beautiful real girl, came in. She was early for work, but she had
always been one of the most dependable of the five dancers on the day shift. I said hello, and
before she went to the dressing room she sat down beside me at the bar. "You hear what
happened to Crazy Vi, who works by Big Al's Old Chicago?"