"Joe Haldeman - Lindsay and the Red City Blues" - читать интересную книгу автора (Haldeman Joe)

"That's okay, you buy pack up here." He pointed at a gazebo-shaped concession on the
edge of the park.
"Hell, no. You find me a beer and I might buy you some cigarettes." They came out of the
shady park and crossed the packed-earth plaza of the Djemaa El Fna. Dust stung his throat
and nostrils, but it wasn't quite as hot as it had been earlier; a slight breeze had come up. One
industrious merchant was rolling up the front flap of his tent, exposing racks of leather
goods. He called out, "Hey, you buy!" but Scott ignored him, and the boy made a fist
gesture, thumb erect between the two first fingers.
Scott had missed one section of the guidebook: "Never visit the medina without a guide;
the streets are laid out in crazy, unpredictable angles and someone who doesn't live there will
be hopelessly lost in minutes. The best guides are the older men or young Americans who
live there for the cheap narcotics; with them you can arrange the price ahead of time, usually
about 5 dirham ($1.10). Under no circumstances hire one of the street urchins who pose as
students and offer to guide you for free; you will be cheated or even beaten up and robbed."
They passed behind the long double row of tents and entered the medina through the Bab
Agnou gateway. The main street of the place was a dirt alley some eight feet wide, flanked
on both sides by small shops and stalls, most of which were closed, either with curtains or
steel shutters or with the proprietor dozing on the stoop. None of the shops had a wall on the
side fronting the alley, but the ones that served food usually had chest-high counters. If they
passed an open shop the merchant would block their way and importune them in urgent
simple French or English, plucking at Scott's sleeve as they passed.
It was surprisingly cool in the medina, the sun's rays partially blocked by wooden lattices
suspended over the alleyway. There was a roast-chestnut smell of semolina being parched,
with accents of garlic and strange herbs smoldering. Slight tang of exhaust fumes and sickly-
sweet hint of garbage and sewage hidden from the sun. The boy led him down a side street,
and then another. Scott couldn't tell the position of the sun and was quickly disoriented.
"Where the hell are we going?"
"Cold beer. You see." He plunged down an even smaller alley, dark and sinister, and
Lindsay followed, feeling unarmed.
They huddled against a damp wall while a white-haired man on an antique one-cylinder
motor scooter hammered by. "How much farther is this place? I'm not going toтАФ"
"Here, one corner." The boy dragged him around the corner and into a musty-smelling
dark shop. The shopkeeper, small and round, smiled gold teeth and greeted the boy by name,
Abdul. "The word for beer is `bera,' " he said. Scott repeated the word to the fat little man
and Abdul added something. The man opened two beers and set them down on the counter,
along with a pack of cigarettes.
It's a new little Arab, Lindsay, but I think you'll be amused by its presumption. He paid
and gave Abdul his cigarettes and beer. "Aren't you Moslem? I thought Moslems didn't
drink."
"Hell yes, man." He stuck his finger down the neck of the bottle and flicked away a drop
of beer, then tilted the bottle up and drained half of it in one gulp. Lindsay sipped at his. It
was warm and sour.
"What you do in the States, man?" He lit a cigarette and held it awkwardly.
Chemical glassware salesman? "I drive a truck." The acrid Turkish tobacco smoke stung
his eyes.
"Make lots of money."
"No, I don't." He felt foolish saying it. World traveler, Lindsay, you spent more on your
ticket than this boy will see in his life.
"Let's go my father's factory."
"What does your father make?"