"Ian McDonald - The Djinn's Wife" - читать интересную книгу автора (McDonald Ian)

the sun a vast blister bleeding onto the smokestacks and light-farms of the western suburbs. The chhatris
of the Sisganj Gurdwara, the minarets and domes of the Jama Masjid, the shikara of the Shiv temple are
shadow-puppet scenery against the red, dust-laden sky. Above them pigeons storm and dash, wings
wheezing. Black kites rise on the thermals above Old Delhi's thousand thousand rooftops. Beyond them,
a curtain wall taller and more imposing than any built by the Mughals, stand the corporate towers of New
Delhi, Hindu temples of glass and construction diamond stretched to fantastical, spiring heights, twinkling
with stars and aircraft warning lights.

A whisper inside her head, her name accompanied by a spray of sitar: the call-tone of her palmer,
transduced through her skull into her auditory center by the subtle 'hoek curled like a piece of jewelry
behind her ear.

"I'm just having a quick bidi break, give me a chance to finish it," she complains, expecting Pranh, the
choreographer, a famously tetchy third-sex nute. Then, "Oh!" For the gold-lit dust rises before her up into
a swirl, like a dancer made from ash.

Adjinn. The thought hovers on her caught breath. Her mother, though Hindu, devoutly believed in the
djinni, in any religion's supernatural creatures with a skill for trickery.

The dust coalesces into a man in a long, formal sherwani and loosely wound red turban, leaning on the
parapet and looking out over the glowing anarchy of Chandni Chowk. He is very handsome, the dancer
thinks, hastily stubbing out her cigarette and letting it fall in an arc of red embers over the battlements. It
does not do to smoke in the presence of the great diplomat A.J. Rao.

"You needn't have done that on my account, Esha," A.J. Rao says, pressing his hands together in a
namaste. "It's not as though I can catch anything from it."

Esha Rathore returns the greeting, wondering if the stage crew down in the courtyard was watching her
salute empty air. All Awadh knows those filmi-star features: A.J. Rao, one of Bharat's most
knowledgeable and tenacious negotiators. No, she corrects herself. All Awadh knows are pictures on a
screen. Pictures on a screen, pictures in her head; a voice in her ear. An aeai.

"You know my name?"

"I am one of your greatest admirers."

Her face flushes: a waft of stifling heat spun off from the vast palace's microclimate, Esha tells herself. Not
embarrassment. Never embarrassment.

"But I'm a dancer. And you are an...."

"Artificial intelligence? That I am. Is this some new anti-aeai legislation, that we can't appreciate dance?"
He closes his eyes. "Ah: I'm just watching the Marriage of Radha and Krishna again."

But he has her vanity now. "Which performance?"

"Star Arts Channel. I have them all. I must confess, I often have you running in the background while I'm
in negotiation. But please don't mistake me, I never tire of you." A.J. Rao smiles. He has very good, very
white teeth. "Strange as it may seem, I'm not sure what the etiquette is in this sort of thing. I came here
because I wanted to tell you that I am one of your greatest fans and that I am very much looking forward