"Fat Tuesday" - читать интересную книгу автора (McDonald Ian)

Sambada school: a collection of individuals, usually of one shanty district (see
cabaёa) incorporating musicians, dancers, costume designers, etc. who represent
their district in the carnival parade and sambada competition.

sambadero(a): a man or woman wise in the ways of sambada.

* * * *

Run, Annunciato

Do not doubt they are behind you, pouring down the steep alleys of Birimbao
Hill. Do not doubt that theirs are the voices whooping and cheering, theirs the
wolf cries and the laughter like whips, echoing among the shanties and favelas.
Do not doubt that theirs is the batteria surging through the trash streets and
dirt squares, drums beating beating you from wherever you try to hide. And never
for one instant imagine that they will ever give up until they catch you and
kill you. For they are the Lobos de Sangre, and no wolf will abandon the chase
until it has tasted blood.

Grasped in AnnunciatoТs right hand, the glass guitar gently bleeds.

Thoughts of escape, Annunciato? That maybe if you can reach the boulevard you
will be able to lose them among the holographic saints and neon madonnas and
videowall advertisements for Coke and Sony and cannbarillos? Prayers,
Annunciato? Oh Mary, dazzle them with your neon halo, oh gay St Sebastian, send
your laser arrows into their eyes?

Better to run, Annunciato. The freeway has new gods now, new deities born out of
the media remix. They are gauche and inexpert, but enthusiastic.

Nissans and Toyotas cut smoking rubber hexagrams into the blacktop as Annunciato
and his glass guitar weave between the bumper-to-bumpers crowding the five lanes
inbound and five lanes outbound: Hey boy you tired of living, stupid favelado,
cabaёero you want to mash yourself all over my hood ornaments I am only too
happy to oblige you where he steal that guitar from anywhereplacehow? Oaths and
imprecations cease as the Lobos come loping through the gridlock slapнping out
the rhythm of the hunt on spray-customised hoods, leaping from fender to fender
to fender, leering in at the Valley Girls in six centimetre heels and
hi-thi-leos and wrap-round teleshades.

In some off-avenue back alley overseen by videowall Marys, he stops to listen if
they are still behind him.

Oh yes, Annunciato. Most definitely, Annunciato.

The roar of engines is like a steel-capped boot in the stomach. The lowriders
come revving along the alleyways, Lobos hungry, eager, riding on doors and
roofs, beating out their hunting song on hot-shopped Toyota steel. Sparks scream
back from their scratch plates.