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

She found Odile Richard waiting under the StandardтАЩs white porte cochere and the hotelтАЩs
signтАФdisplayed, for reasons known only to its designers, upside down. Odile was still on Paris time, but
Hollis had offered to accommodate her with this small-hours meeting. Also, evidently, it was optimal for
viewing this kind of art.

Beside her stood a broad young Latino with shaven head and retro-ethnic burgundy Pendleton, sleeves
scissored away above the elbows. The shirtтАЩs untucked tails reached nearly to the knees of his baggy
chinos. тАЬVote for Santa,тАЭ he said, beaming, as she walked up to them, raising a silver can of Tecate.
There was something tattooed in very bold and ultra-elaborated Olde English lettering down the length of
his forearm.

тАЬExcuse me?тАЭ

тАЬ├А votre sant├й,тАЭ corrected Odile, dabbing at her nose with a frayed wad of tissue. Odile was the least
chic Frenchwoman Hollis could recall having met, though in a kind of haute-nerd Euro way that only
made her more annoyingly adorable. She wore a black XXXL sweatshirt from some long-dead start-up,
menтАЩs brown ribbed-nylon socks of a peculiarly nasty sheen, and see-through plastic sandals the color of
cherry cough syrup.

тАЬAlberto Corrales,тАЭ he said.

тАЬAlberto,тАЭ she said, allowing her hand to be engulfed in his other, empty hand, dry as wood. тАЬHollis
Henry.тАЭ

тАЬThe Curfew,тАЭ Alberto said, his smile widening.
The fan thing, she thought, amazed as ever, and just as suddenly ill at ease.

тАЬThis dirt, in the air,тАЭ Odile protested, тАЬit is disgusting. Please let us go now, to view the piece.тАЭ

тАЬRight,тАЭ said Hollis, grateful for the distraction.

тАЬThis way,тАЭ Alberto said, neatly lobbing his empty can into a white Standard waste container with
Milanese pretensions. The wind, she noticed, had died as if on cue.

She glanced into the lobby. The reception desk was deserted, the bikini-girl terrarium empty and unlit.
Then she followed Alberto and the irritably snuffling Odile to AlbertoтАЩs car, a classic Volks Beetle
gleaming under multiple coats of low-rider lacquer. She saw a volcano flowing with incandescent lava,
big-busted Latinas in mini-loincloths and feathered Aztec headdresses, the polychrome coils of a winged
serpent. Alberto was into some kind of ethnic culture jamming, she decided, unless VWs had entered the
pantheon since sheтАЩd last looked at this stuff.

He opened the passenger-side door and held the seat up while Odile slid into the back. Where there
seemed already to be equipment of some kind. Then he gestured for Hollis to take the passenger seat,
almost a bow.

She blinked at the sublimely matter-of-fact semiotics of the old VWтАЩs dashboard. The car smelled of
some ethnic air-freshener. That too was part of a language, she guessed, like the paintjob, but someone
like Alberto might deliberately be using exactly the wrong freshener.