"Lumley, Brian - Necroscope - The Lost Years Volume 1" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lumley Brian)

Dons it seemed obvious that they had
Brian Lumley
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Necroscope: The Lost Years - Vol. I
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corrupted the incorruptible on a world-wide scale ...
... Francesco's thoughts had strayed from their course. As the limo glided, or occasionally bumped,
for the junction with the A-19 motorway into Palermo, he redirected his mind to that evening six
short weeks ago:

After their meeting with the Dons (whom they had advised on such problems as what or what not to
do about Aldo Moro and his kidnappers the Red Brigade, in Italy, and President Leone, who had
become an embarrassment) the hour had been late. Driving back through Palermo and turned aside
by a diversion where road works were in progress, Tony had noticed Julio's Cafe and suggested
they pause a while for refreshments.
Indoors in the room of the marble staircase, the brothers had ordered Julio's 'Greek Island
Specialities.' They'd picked at spicy sausages, stuffed vine-leaves, and various dips prepared in
olive oil - but no garlic - all washed down with tiny measures of Mavrodaphne and a chaser, the
brackish Vecchia Romagna, sipped from huge brandy-bowl glasses. By nine-thirty the kitchens had
closed; the brothers dined alone. Julio had excused himself - a toothache! He'd called a dentist who,
even at this late hour, had agreed to see him. His daughter, Julietta, would see the brothers off the
premises when they were done.
Perhaps Francesco had drunk a little too much Mavrodaphne, too large a measure of brandy. Or it
could be that in the gloom and draughty emptiness of the place, with the picked-at food gone cold
on their plates, and the knowledge of lowering skies just beyond the arches, the woman had looked
more radiant, more luminous ... more pure? Whatever, Francesco had looked at her in a certain
way, and she had looked back. And Anthony Francezci had gone down to the limo on his own,
while his brother ...
At which point the silver grey hearse of a car had swerved to avoid a dead animal in the road - a
goat, Mario thought! - and again Francesco had been shaken from his reflections where he lolled in
a corner of the back seat. Perhaps it was as well. They had been passing close to Bagheria; in a
moment they'd be making a sharp right turn. Oh, yes, for Tony would surely want to park a while at
a place he was fond of: the Villa Palagonia.
'What, drawn to your monsters yet again?' Francesco's comment had been petulant, almost angry;
he was irritated that his mood and memories had been broken into.
'Our monsters!' Tony had answered immediately and sharply. For it was true enough: both of the
brothers knew the inspiration behind the lunatic array of stone beasts that adorned the walls of the
villa. The carved dwarves and gargoyles, the creatures with human hands and feet, and other
Things that defied description. Some two hundred years ago the owner of the villa, Prince
Ferdinando Gravina, had insisted upon
visiting Le Manse Madonie, home to the Ferenczinis, as their name was then. Rich as Croesus, he
had been interested to discover why the equally wealthy Ferenczinis were satisfied to dwell in such
an 'out-of-the-way, austere, almost inhospitable sort of place.' And Ferdinando's mania for
grotesques - or his mania in general - had later emerged as a direct result of that visit.
But in any case Francesco had shrugged, saying, 'According to Swinburne, these sculptures have
their origin in Diodorus's tale of the freakish creatures that came out of the Nile's sunbaked mud.'
And before his brother could answer: 'Perhaps it's better if that legend prevails? It was a long time
ago, after all. Too long ago, for such as you and I to remember!'
At which Tony had scowled and answered, 'Ferdinando looked into the pit, brother - the pit at Le
Manse Madonie - and we both know it!' And then, sneeringly: 'Let's be discreet by all means, but in