"Eliot Fintushel - Izzy and the Father of Terror" - читать интересную книгу автора (Fintushel Eliot)

in my mind. In there, I can see the faces
of all the people in my life, I know the
names of everything, and no one on Earth
would disbelieve me." The Joshua tree was
unconvinced. I couldnтАЩt remember my
motherтАЩs face. I stood there, out of sight
of any highway, lost to the Space People,
stars in my skin. Someone had just spoken.
It might have been the Joshua tree. It
might have been the sand.



3. Izzy

Finally, tears gushed. I was sitting on a
curb by the highway before dawn. I was
dawn, not quite risen over a small, dark
man on a desert highway. I was a pool of
tears splash-fed by a biped above my
gutter. I was a tremble, a sob, a cicada,
a dead soul listening in. I donтАЩt know
what I was. I was a car coming, high beam
illumining tear-slicked face, driver
coming in earshot of moaning figure, alone
in the desert, in the dark.

The car stopped a few yards past me, then
purred back. The passenger door flung
open, and a man leaned out, balding,
single-browed, a skinny man with a nasal
accent: "Get in, Jack. We ainтАЩt got all
day."

I smelled jasmine, sweet and piercing.
Inside, beneath a red tassel hanging from
the rearview, a small soapstone elephant
was lit by the map light above the dash.
My tusks curled into the tangle of
threads. I had many arms. In my hands were
medicine bottles, knives, diamonds,

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skulls, crushed demons, and snakes. A
naked woman scissored me.

I was sitting in GaneshaтАЩs lap. My legs
embraced the elephantтАЩs hips. My heels