"Barry N. Malzberg & Kathe Koja - Orleans, Rheims, Friction Fire" - читать интересную книгу автора (Malzberg Barry N)

churchman's smile, warder's wink: "I think he's trying to score off her," he
says. "Nail her to the wall."

"Better that than a cross."

"Well," and another pause. "It's just a game, right?" He smiles at her; her
nipples are hard from the rain and the chill, she sees, feels him staring and
"Stop looking at my tits," not bothering to turn away, to hide herself: why hide
from him, what does he know? "Women hate that; I hate it. Stop it."

Stillness: the sound of the rain: does he like the acknowledgement that he has
disturbed her, reached her, or is all of this simply beyond him? "They've got
everyone almost figured out, concrete," he says calmly, a little subdued,
looking out as does she at the darkness. "Martin Luther, Henry Ford, Marie
Antoinette --"

"Marilyn Monroe."

"Marilyn Monroe, right," and grateful he nods, smiles, forgiven, "and Bette
Davis and Edgar Allan Poe and Joe DiMaggio," gently tapping his own chest, "and
Joan of Arc." Looking at her, making the little smile big. "I thought it was,
was intriguing, what you did," touching the piece of paper, yellow note still
stuck to her back, replaced. "That you looked, you know, at who you were."

More rain, tiny breeze to move her skirt, port-wine color, the color of blood.
How late is it now ? is it late enough ? is it time to go home, can she leave
now? Is it over? From his jacket, that ugly jacket the odor of cigarette smoke
and perfume, his own odor, skin-smell ubiquitous as the flesh itself, fleshly
priest, carnal priest among his lost congregation, warm meat to carry the oldest
smell of all, that cold, bold retention amidst the stones of night but: no, that
other Joan died a virgin, bride only to the fire and this Joan knows secrets of
another kind.

"It's important," she says, looking straight at him, all eyes, one stare as
reflexively he retreats, one step back and two and "It's important," again,
insistent, "to know who you are. People forget. Who knows about Joan of Arc
today? How many knew who she was at the time?" And what is it to you? she
thinks, old knowledge, old fire, who knows where all the bodies are buried and
burned? "We can only forget," she says, eyes wider now, "the movement of life is
toward forgetfulness and the failure of memory. That's how it's meant to be.
That's how it has to be," forward the march into the darkness, the light one
dies reflecting consumed as well to darkness by that fire, it is all she knows,
all she needs to know and he says something about this, false priest, priest of
folly murmuring against the rising rain, mutter like a voice between her eyes;
the offering hand, the pink champagne and this time she takes it, holds it, stem
and circle in her hand, leaping streaming bubbles like angels dancing in the
night, halo and firmament as he leans a little closer, just a little closer
still, just close enough so she can hear the murmur of the echo of the memory of
the heat, dark and concealed, meat on the bone to rise like sparks in the center
of his own supplicating fire.