"George R. R. Martin - WC 4 - Aces Abroad" - читать интересную книгу автора (Martin George R R)

important and influential politicians and aces streamed toward the limos waiting
for them, while Chrysalis, Wilde, and the other obvious jokers on the tour had
to make do with the dirty, dented jeeps clustered at the rear of the cavalcade.
"You should've," Wilde said. He was a large man whose delicate features were
loosing their handsomeness to bloat. He wore an Edwardian outfit that was in
desperate need of cleaning and pressing, and enough floral-scented body wash to
make Chrysalis glad that they were in an open vehicle. He waved his left hand
languorously as he talked and kept his right in the pocket of his jacket.
"Jokers, after all, are the niggers.of the world." He pursed his lips and
glanced at their driver, who, like ninety-five percent of Haiti's population,
was black. "A statement not without irony on this island."
Chrysalis grabbed the back of the driver's seat as the jeep jounced away from
the curb, following the rest of the cavalcade as it pulled away from the
hospital. The air was cool against Chrysalis's face hidden deep within the folds
of her hood, but the rest of her body was drenched with sweat. She fantasized
about a long, cool drink and a slow, cool bath for the hour it took the
motorcade to wend its way through Port-au-Prince's narrow, twisting streets.
When they finally reached the Royal Haitian Hotel, she stepped down into the
street almost before the jeep stopped, anxious for the waiting coolness of the
lobby, and was instantly engulfed by a sea of beseeching faces, all babbling in
Haitian Creole. She couldn't understand what the beggars were saying, but she
didn't have to speak their language to understand the want and desperation in
their eyes, tattered clothing, and brittle, emaciated bodies.


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The press of imploring beggars pinned her against the side of the jeep, and the
immediate rush of pity she'd felt for their obvious need was submerged in fear
fueled by their piteously beseeching voices and the dozens of thin, sticklike
arms thrust out at her.
The driver, before she could say or do anything, reached under the jeep's
dashboard and grabbed a long, thin wooden rod that looked like a truncated
broomstick, stood up, and began swinging it at the beggars while shouting rapid,
harsh phrases in Creole.
Chrysalis heard, and saw, the skinny arm of a young boy snap at the first blow.
The second opened the scalp of an old man, and the third missed as the intended
victim managed to duck away.
The driver drew the weapon back to strike again. Chrysalis, her usually cautious
reserve overcome by sudden outrage, turned to him and screamed, "Stop! Stop
that!" and with the sudden movement the hood fell away from her face, revealing
her features for the first time. Revealing, that is, what features she had.
Her skin and flesh were as clear as the finest blown glass, without flaw or
bubble. Besides the muscles that clung to her skull and jaw, only the meat of
her lips was visible. They were dark red pads on the gleaming expanse of her
skull. Her eyes, floating in the depths of their naked sockets, were as blue as
fragments of sky.
The driver gaped at her. The beggars, whose importunings had turned to wails of
fear, all fell silent at once, as if an invisible octopus had simultaneously