"Gibson, William - Mona Lisa Overdrive" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gibson William)
╗I wasn't hungry.л Conscious of her mother's mask.
╗Well, Swain'll have something for you. Eats a lot of Jap food, Swain.л He made a strange little ticking sound with his tongue. He glanced back at her.
She looked past him, seeing the kiss of snowflakes, the obliterating sweep of the wipers.
Swain's Notting Hill residence consisted of three interconnected Victorian townhouses situated somewhere in a snowy profusion of squares, crescents, and mews. Petal, with two of Kumiko's suitcases in either hand, explained to her that number 17 was the front entrance for numbers 16 and 18 as well. ╗No use knocking there,л he said, gesturing clumsily with the heavy cases in his hand, indicating the glossy red paint and polished brass fittings of 16's door. ╗Nothing behind it but twenty inches of ferroconcrete.л
She looked down the crescent, nearly identical facades receding along its shallow curve. The snow fell more thickly now, and the featureless sky was lit with a salmon glow of sodium lamps. The street was deserted, the snow fresh and unmarked. There was an alien edge to the cold air, a faint, pervasive hint of burning, of archaic fuels. Petal's shoes left large, neatly defined prints. They were black suede oxfords with narrow toes and extremely thick corrugated soles of scarlet plastic. She followed in his tracks, beginning to shiver, up the gray steps to number 17.
╗It's me then,л he said to the black-painted door, ╗innit.л Then he sighed, set all four suitcases down in the snow, removed the fingerless glove from his right hand, and pressed his palm against a circle of bright steel set flush with one of the door panels. Kumiko thought she heard a faint whine, a gnat sound that rose in pitch until it vanished, and then the door vibrated with the muffled impact of magnetic bolts as they withdrew.
╗You called it Smoke,л she said, as he reached for the brass knob, ╗the city. . . .л
He paused. ╗The Smoke,л he said, ╗yes,л and opened the door into warmth and light, ╗that's an old expression, sort of nickname.л He picked up her bags and padded into a blue-carpeted foyer paneled in white-painted wood. She followed him, the door closing itself behind her, its bolts thumping back into place. A mahogany-framed print hung above the white wainscoting, horses in a field, crisp little figures in red coats. Colin the chip-ghost should live there , she thought. Petal had put her bags down again. Flakes of compacted snow lay on the blue carpet. Now he opened another door, exposing a gilt steel cage. He drew the bars aside with a clank. She stared into the cage, baffled. ╗The lift,л he said. ╗No space for your things. I'll make a second trip.л
For all its apparent age, it rose smoothly enough when Petal touched a white porcelain button with a blunt forefinger. Kumiko was forced to stand very close to him then; he smelled of damp wool and some floral shaving
preparation.
╗We've put you up top,л he said, leading her along a narrow corridor, ╗because we thought you might appreciate the quiet.л He opened a door and gestured her in. ╗Hope it'll do. . . .л He removed his glasses and polished them energetically with a crumpled tissue. ╗I'll get your bags.л
When he had gone, Kumiko walked slowly around the massive black marble tub that dominated the center of the low, crowded room. The walls, angled sharply toward the ceiling, were faced with mottled gold mirror. A pair of small dormer windows flanked the largest bed she'd ever seen. Above the bed, the mirror was inset with small adjustable lights, like the reading lamps in an airliner. She stood beside the tub to touch the arched neck of a gold-plated swan that served as a spout. Its spread wings were tap handles. The air in the room was warm and still, and for an instant the presence of her mother seemed to fill it, an aching fog.
Petal cleared his throat in the doorway. ╗Well then,л he said, bustling in with her luggage, ╗everything in order? Feeling hungry yet? No? Leave you to settle in . . .л He arranged her bags beside the bed. ╗If you should feel like eating, just ring.л He indicated an ornate antique telephone with scrolled brass mouth and earpieces and a turned ivory handle. ╗Just pick it up, you needn't dial. Breakfast's when you want it. Ask someone, they'll show you where. You can meet Swain then. . . .л
The sense of her mother had vanished with his return. She tried to feel it again, when he said goodnight and closed the door, but it was gone.
She remained a long time beside the tub, stroking the smooth metal of the swan's cool neck.
Kid Afrika
Kid Afrika came cruising into Dog Solitude on the last day in November, his vintage Dodge chauffeured by a white girl named Cherry Chesterfield.
Slick Henry and Little Bird were breaking down the buzzsaw that formed the Judge's left hand when Kid's Dodge came into view, its patched apron bag throwing up brown fantails of the rusty water that pooled on the Solitude's uneven plain of compacted steel.
Little Bird saw it first. He had sharp eyes, Little Bird, and a 10X monocular that dangled on his chest amid the bones of assorted animals and antique bottleneck cartridge brass. Slick looked up from the hydraulic wrist to see Little Bird straighten up to his full two meters and aim the monocular out through the grid of unglazed steel that formed most of Factory's south wall. Little Bird was very thin, almost skeletal, and the lacquered wings of brown hair that had earned him the name stood out sharp against the pale sky. He kept the back and sides shaved high, well above his ears; with the wings and the aerodynamic ducktail, he looked as though he were wearing a headless brown gull.
╗What?л It was hard to get Little Bird to concentrate, and the job needed a second set of hands.
╗It's that nigger.л
Slick stood up and wiped his hands down the thighs of his jeans while Little Bird fumbled the green Mech-5 microsoft from the socket behind his ear -- instantly forgetting the eight-point servo-calibration procedure needed to unfuck the Judge's buzzsaw. ╗Who's driving?л Afrika never drove himself if he could help it.
╗Can't make out.л Little Bird let the monocular clatter back into the curtain of bones and brass.
Slick joined him at the window to watch the Dodge's progress. Kid Afrika periodically touched up the hover's matte-black paint-job with judicious applications from an aerosol can, the somber effect offset by the row of chrome-plated skulls welded to the massive front bumper. At one time the hollow steel skulls had boasted red Christmas bulbs for eyes; maybe the Kid was losing his concern with image.
As the hover slewed up to Factory, Slick heard Little Bird shuffle back into the shadows, his heavy boots scraping through dust and fine bright spirals of metal shavings.
Slick watched past a last dusty dagger of window glass as the hover settled into its apron bags in front of Factory, groaning and venting steam.
Something rattled in the dark behind him and he knew that Little Bird was behind the old parts rack, fiddling the homemade silencer onto the Chinese rimfire they used for rabbits.
╗Bird,л Slick said, tossing his wrench down on the tarp, ╗I know you're an ignorant little redneck Jersey asshole, but do you have to keep goddamn reminding me of it?л
╗Don't like that nigger,л Little Bird said, from behind the rack.
╗Yeah, and if that nigger'd bother noticing, he wouldn't like you either. Knew you were back here with that gun, he'd shove it down your throat sideways.л
No response from Little Bird. He'd grown up in white Jersey stringtowns where nobody knew shit about anything and hated anybody who did.
╗And I'd help him, too.л Slick yanked up the zip on his old brown jacket and went out to Kid Afrika's hover.
The dusty window on the driver's side hissed down, revealing a pale face dominated by an enormous pair of amber-tinted goggles. Slick's boots crunched on ancient cans rusted thin as old leaves. The driver tugged the goggles down and squinted at him; female, but now the amber goggles hung around her neck, concealing her mouth and chin. The Kid would be on the far side, a good thing in the unlikely event Little Bird started shooting.
╗Go on around,л the girl said.
Slick walked around the hover, past the chrome skulls, hearing Kid Afrika's window come down with that same demonstrative little sound.
╗Slick Henry,л the Kid said, his breath puffing white as it hit the air of the Solitude, ╗hello.л
Slick looked down at the long brown face. Kid Afrika had big hazel eyes, slitted like a cat's, a pencil-thin mustache, and skin with the sheen of buffed leather.
╗Hey, Kid.л Slick smelled some kind of incense from inside the hover. ╗How y ' doin'?л
╗Well,л the Kid said, narrowing his eyes, ╗recall you sayin' once, if I ever needed a favor . . .л
╗Right,л Slick said, feeling a first twinge of apprehension. Kid Afrika had saved his ass once, in Atlantic City; talked some irate brothers out of dropping him off this balcony on the forty-third floor of a burned- out highstack. ╗Somebody wanna throw you off a tall building?л
╗Slick,л the Kid said, ╗I wanna introduce you to somebody.л
╗Then we'll be even?л
╗Slick Henry, this fine-looking girl here, this is Miss Cherry Chesterfield of Cleveland, Ohio.л Slick bent down and looked at the driver. Blond shockhead, paintstick around her eyes. ╗Cherry, this is my close personal friend Mr. Slick Henry. When he was young and bad he rode with the Deacon Blues. Now he's old and bad, he holes up out here and pursues his art , understand. A talented man, understand.л
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