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

especially as performed during the annual pre-Lenten carnival.

Also: sambada: a social gathering at which sambada is danced and
performed.

Sambada school: a collection of individuals, usually of one shanty
district (see caba├▒a) 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.

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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 AnnunciatoтАЩs 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, caba├▒ero 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 slap-ping 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.