"Gibson, William - Count Zero" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gibson William)

In the afternoon, she suggested they walk down the beach,
toward Barre, the way they'd gone that first morning.
Turner extracted the dustplug from the socket behind his
ear and inserted a sliver of microsoft The structure of Span-
ish settled through him like a tower of glass, invisible gates
hinged on present and future, conditional, preterite perfect.
Leaving her in the room, he crossed the Avenida and entered
the market. He bought a straw basket, cans of cold beer,
sandwiches, and fruit. On his way back, he bought a new pair
of sunglasses from the vendor in the Avenida.
His tan was dark and even The angular patchwork left by
the Dutchman's grafts was gone, and she had taught him the
unity of his body Mornings, when he met the green eyes in
the bathroom mirror, they were his own, and the Dutchman
no longer troubled his dreams with bad jokes and a dry
cough. Sometimes, still, he dreamed fragments of India, a
country he barely knew, bright splinters, Chandni Chauk, the
smell of dust and fried breads

The walls of the ruined hotel stood a quarter of the way
down the bay's arc. The surf here was stronger, each wave a
detonation.
Now she tugged him toward it, something new at the
corners of her eyes, a tightness. Gulls scattered as they came
hand in hand up the beach to gaze into shadow beyond empty
doorways. The sand had subsided, allowing the structure's
fa~ade to cave in, walls gone, leaving the floors of the three
levels hung like huge shingles from bent, rusted tendons of
finger-thick steel, each one faced with a different color and
pattern of tile
HOTEL PLAYA DEL M was worked in childlike seashell capi-
tals above one concrete arch. "Mar," he said, completing it,
though he'd removed the microsoft.
"It's over," she said, stepping beneath the arch, into
shadow.
"What's over?" He followed, the straw basket rubbing
against his hip. The sand here was cold, dry, loose between
his toes.
"Over. Done with. This place. No time here, no future."
He stared at her, glanced past her to where rusted bed-
springs were tangled at the junction of two crumbling walls.
"It smells like piss," he said. ``Let's swim.

The sea took the chill away, but a distance hung between
them now. They sat on a blanket from Turner's room and ate,
silently. The shadow of the ruin lengthened. The wind moved
her sun-streaked hair.
"You make me think about horses," he said finally
"Well," she said, as though she spoke from the depths of
exhaustion, "they've only been extinct for thirty years."