"Daniel Keys Moran - Armageddon Blues" - читать интересную книгу автора (Moran Daniel Keys)

Jalian said abruptly, "I return your question. What are you? You are unlike any male I have ever known.
You are much like a person," she said courteously.

"Well," said Georges. "Thank youтАж Where are you from? I don't recognize your accent." JalianтАЩs lips
parted as though to reply, then closed. She made a gesture of helplessness, and turned to leave. She
stopped in the act and said to Georges, "There is a bridge on my map. It isтАж" She paused, converting
time units in her head, "тАжfifteen minutes' walk from here. I will wait for you there, for a little while." She
gestured to the car, somehow managing to convey supreme contempt. "Do not come in that, if you
come." She began walking without waiting for a reply.

Georges watched the retreating figure for a long time,. until she had passed from sight. He was horribly
tempted to get back in the car and leave and never be faced with this white-haired woman again.

Georges Mordreaux tended to think of himself as something a cut above the ordinary mortal, almost
semi-divine, and it was a fact that Georges tended to awe people. It was strange to find someone who
had the ability to set herself up as his equal on their first meeting.

It was a long time before he started after her, on foot. Behind him, the Camaro's engine began to falter.

Jalian d'Arsennette and Georges Mordreaux stood at the edge of the bridge. A small, nearly dry river
passed underneath. Far overhead, a front of dark, rain-heavy cumulus clouds moved toward the bridge.
Second by second, its shadow killed the sunlight on the moving water.

"I like bridges the best," said Jalian. Her hands were resting, on the guardrail. "There were no bridges on
the Big Road, not even any places where bridges used to be." Beneath them, the murmur of the river was
barely audible. Georges reached out, and ran one finger along the profile of her jaw. "The first time I
came to a bridge, I was almost afraid to cross it."

Georges sighed. "You know I don't have any idea at all what you're talking about?" Jalian did not reply.
Georges whispered, "Look at me."

Jalian kept her eyes averted. She was looking at the guardrails of the bridge. The rails were made of
iron, and were badly rusted. They reached to Jalian's waist. Jalian ran her hands over the rough metal, as
though she were studying the texture and shape. After a long and stretching silence, she said, "What is
your name?"

Georges said, "Georges," absently. The breeze was blowing her long, silky hair toward him. His hand
dropped from her chin and tentatively, he ran his fingers along its surface. Jalian shivered, and brushed his
hand away. Georges said, so softly that his voice could not have been heard more than a meter away, "le
ne sais quoi. What am I to do about you?"

"Georges what?"

"Eh?"

"Is Georges all there is?" Jalian persisted.

Georges leaned back against the railing, not looking at her. Where Jalian's hand had touched the rail, the
rust was smeared faintly. Small patches of clean steel began to appear with creeping slowness.
"Mordreaux," said Georges finally. "Georges Mordreaux."