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

"All kinds of things. Rugs."
"I wouldn't know what to do with a rug."
"We wrap it, mail to New Caledonia."
"No. Let's go back toтАФ"
"I take you my uncle's factory. Brass, very pretty."
"
No. Back to the plaza, you got your cigтАФ"
"Sure, let's go." He gulped down the rest of his beer and stepped back into the alley, Scott
following. After a couple of twists and turns they passed an antique-weapons shop that Scott
knew he would have noticed, if they'd come by it before. He stopped.
"Where are you taking me now?"
He looked hurt. "Back to Djemaa El Fna. Like you say."
"The hell you are. Get lost, Abdul. I'll find my own way back." He turned and started
retracing their path. The boy followed about ten paces behind him, smoking.
He walked for twenty minutes or so, trying to find the relatively broad alleyway that
would lead back to the gate. The character of the medina changed: there were fewer and
fewer places selling souvenirs, and then none; only residences and little general-merchandise
stores, and some small-craft factories, where one or two men, working at a feverish pace,
cranked out the items that were sold in the shops. No one tried to sell him anything, and
when a little girl held out her hand to beg, an old woman shuffled over and slapped her.
Everybody stared when he passed.
Finally he stopped and let Abdul catch up with him. "All right, you win. How much to
lead me out?"
"Ten dirham."
"Stuff it. I'll give you two."
Abdul looked at him for a long time, hands in pockets. "Nine dirham." They haggled for a
while and finally settled on seven dirham, about $1.50, half now and half at the gate.
They walked through yet another part of the medina, single file through narrow streets,
Abdul smoking silently in the lead. Suddenly he stopped.
Scott almost ran into him.
"Say, you want girl?"
"Uh ... I'm not sure," Scott said, startled into honesty. He laughed, surprisingly deep and
lewd. "A boy, then?"
"No, no." Composure, Lindsay. "Your sister, no doubt."
"
What?" Wrong thing to say.
"American joke. She a friend of yours?"
"Good friend, good fuck. Fifty dirham."
Scott sighed. "Ten." Eventually they settled on thirty-two, Abdul to wait outside until
Scott needed his services as a guide again.
Abdul took him to a caftan shop, where he spoke in whispers with the fat owner and gave
him part of the money. They led Lindsay to the rear of the place, behind a curtain. A woman
sat on her heels beside the bed, patiently crocheting. She stood up gracelessly. She was short
and slight, the top of her head barely reaching Scott's shoulders, and was dressed in
traditional costume: lower part of the face veiled, dark blue caftan reaching her ankles. At a
command from the owner, she hiked the caftan up around her hips and sat down on the bed
with her legs spread apart.
"You see, very clean," Abdul said. She was the skinniest woman Scott had ever seen
naked, partially naked, her pelvic girdle prominent under smooth brown skin. She had very
little pubic hair and the lips of her vulva were dry and gray. But she was only in her early