"William Gibson - Spook Country" - читать интересную книгу автора (Gibson William)

Alejandro, who had never been interested in TitoтАЩs music, looked at him now, his brow smooth between
shoulder-length, center-parted hair, said nothing, and carefully ladled soup, first into TitoтАЩs bowl, then
into his own. The world outside the restaurantтАЩs windows, beyond words in a red plastic Cantonese
neither of them could read, was the color of a silver coin, misplaced for decades in a drawer.

Alejandro was a literalist, highly talented but supremely practical. This was why he had been chosen to
apprentice under gray Juana, their aunt, the familyтАЩs master forger. Tito had lugged ancient mechanical
typewriters through the downtown streets for Alejandro, impossibly heavy machines purchased in dusty
warehouses beyond the river. He had run errands for their inked-cloth ribbons and the turpentine
Alejandro used to wash out most of their ink. Their native Cuba, Juana taught, had been a kingdom of
paper, a bureaucratic maze of forms, of carbon copies in triplicateтАФa realm the initiate might navigate
with confidence and precision. Always precision, in the case of Juana, who had herself been trained in the
white-painted subbasements of a building whose upper stories afforded narrow views of the Kremlin.

тАЬHe frightens you, this old man,тАЭ Alejandro said.

Alejandro had learned JuanaтАЩs thousand tricks with papers and adhesives, watermarks and stamps, her
magic in improvised darkrooms, and darker mysteries involving the names of children who had died in
infancy. Tito had sometimes carried, for months on end, decaying wallets bulging with fragments of the
identities AlejandroтАЩs apprenticeship had generated, prolonged proximity to his body removing every
trace of the new. He had never touched the cards and folded papers the heat and movement of his body
sueded so convincingly. Alejandro, removing them from their stained envelopes of dead manтАЩs leather,
had worn surgical gloves.

тАЬNo,тАЭ Tito said, тАЬhe doesnтАЩt frighten me.тАЭ Though really he wasnтАЩt sure; fear was a part of it, but he
didnтАЩt seem to fear the old man himself.

тАЬPerhaps he should, cousin.тАЭ

The strength of JuanaтАЩs magic had faded, Tito knew, amid new technologies and an increasing
governmental stress on тАЬsecurity,тАЭ by which was meant control. The family relied less now on JuanaтАЩs
skills, obtaining most of their documents (Tito guessed) from others, ones more attuned to present needs.
Alejandro, Tito knew, was not sorry about this. At thirty, eight years older than Tito, he had come to
regard life in the family as at best a mixed blessing. The drawings Tito had seen, taped to fade in sunlight
against the windows of AlejandroтАЩs apartment, were a part of this. Alejandro drew beautifully, seemingly
in any style, and there was an understanding between them, unspoken, that Alejandro had begun to carry
the subtleties of JuanaтАЩs magic uptown, into a world of galleries and collectors.

тАЬCarlito,тАЭ Alejandro named an uncle now, carefully, passing Tito a small white china bowl of greasy,
scented warmth. тАЬWhat has Carlito told you about him?тАЭ

тАЬThat he speaks Russian.тАЭ They were speaking Spanish. тАЬThat if he addresses me in Russian, I may reply
in Russian.тАЭ

Alejandro raised an eyebrow.

тАЬAnd that he knew our grandfather, in Havana.тАЭ

Alejandro frowned, his white china spoon poised above his soup. тАЬAn American?тАЭ