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

Francois "Papa Doc" Duvalier, had died, looked like a fat boy who'd outgrown his
tight-fitting tuxedo. Chrysalis thought him more petulant-looking than
intelligent, more greedy than cunning. It was difficult to imagine how he
managed to hold power in a country that was obviously on the brink of utter
ruin.
Tachyon, wearing an absurd peach-colored crushed-velvet tuxedo, was standing to
his right, introducing Duvalier to the members of his tour. When it came
Chrysalis's turn, Baby Doc took her hand and stared at her with the fascination
of a young boy with a new toy. He murmured to her politely in French and
continued to stare at her as Chrysalis moved down the line.
Michele Duvalier stood next to him. She had the cultivated, brittle look of a
high-fashion model. She was tall and thin and very light-skinned. Her makeup was
immaculate, her gown was the latest off-the-shoulder designer creation, and she
wore lots of costly, gaudy jewelry at her ears, throat, and wrists. Chrysalis
admired the expense with which she dressed, if not the taste.
She drew back a little as Chrysalis approached and nodded a cold, precise
millimeter, without offering her hand. Chrysalis sketched an abbreviated curtsy
and moved on herself, thinking, Bitch.
Calixte, showing the high status he enjoyed in the Duvalier regime, was next. He


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said nothng to her and did nothing to acknowledge her presence, but Chrysalis
felt his stare boring into her all the way down the line. It was a most
unsettling feeling and was, Chrysalis realized, a further sample of the charisma
and power that Calixte wielded. She wondered why he allowed Duvalier to hang
around as a figurehead.
The rest of the receiving line was a confused blur of faces and handshakes. It
ended at the doorway leading into the cavernous dining room. The tablecloths on
the long wooden table were linen, the place settings were silver, the
centerpieces were fragrant sprays of orchid and rose. When she was escorted to
her seat, Chrysalis found that she and the other jokers, Xavier Desmond, Father
Squid, Troll, and Dorian Wilde, were stuck at the end of the table. Word was
whispered that Madame Duvalier had had them seated as far away from her as
possible so the sight of them wouldn't ruin her appetite.
However, as wine was being served with the fish course (Pwason rouj, the waiter
had called it, red snapper served with fresh string beans and fried potatoes),
Dorian Wilde stood and recited an extemporaneous, calculatedly overblown ode in
praise of Madame Duvalier, all the while gesticulating with the twitching,
wriggling, dripping mass of tentacles that was his right hand. Madame Duvalier
turned a shade of green only slightly less bilious than that of the ooze that
dripped from Wilde's tendrils and was seen to eat very little of the following
courses. Gregg Hartmann, sitting near the Duvaliers with the other VIPs,
dispatched his pet Doberman, Billy Ray, to escort Wilde back to his seat, and
the dinner continued in a more subdued, less interesting manner.
As the last of the after-dinner liquors were served and the party started to
break up into small conversational groups, Digger Downs approached Chrysalis and
stuck his camera in her face.