"Norman Spinrad - tHE FAT VAMPIRE" - читать интересную книгу автора (Spinrad Norman)

"Where you come from?"

"Eastern Europe, the Austro-Hungarian Empire, Romania,
Transylvania, the way the borders shift, it's hard to tell."

"Oh no, don't tell me you sleep in a coffin and drink blood!"

Count Kubescu laughed. "Not my idea of haute cuisine," he said, picking up a moca eclair, and chewing on it thoughtfully. "Though of course, in a boudin noir fried up with apples and some onion, why not?"

The conversation was certainly in the process of taking some bizarre turns, yet Christine found herself becoming somehow fascinated with Armand Kubescu. She had already eaten enough to require a trip to the ladies, so it couldn't be that all this was putting an edge on her appetite, nor did she feel anything closely resembling sexual attraction to the likes of this Hollywood count.

Yet there was a strange feeling south of her stomach and north of her crotch which seemed to partake of neither and both, a weird warmth that seemed both satiation and desire, though for what, she couldn't imagine. It was a bit like what she felt halfway through a good full-course meal, her tastebuds rosy in the afterglow of a hearty appetizer, her stomach bloated, her mouth salivating in anticipation of the next course--which was to say it felt like it was time for her to ready herself for the main course by disgorging the preliminaries.

She had to bite her lip to keep from laughing aloud at the thought. I wonder what you'd say to that, Armand Kubescu! I find you strangely attractive, you make me want to throw up.

"Something amuses you?" he said.

Christine found herself munching on her pecan pie to cover the moment. "Well you've got to admit this is not exactly your ordinary pick-up conversation," she finally said.

He laughed. He bit into a tiny raspberry tart, the red berry paste glistening suggestively on his neat white teeth for just a moment before he licked it off with the tip of his tongue.

"Well then perhaps we should revert to more conventional behavior," he said suavely. "Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?"

"Dinner!" Christine groaned. "After what you've been eating all afternoon?" Armand Kubescu consulted his Rolex. "Barely six o'clock," he said. "The end of tea-time in civilized climes. Shall I make a reservation for 8 o'clock? I believe I've had enough to hold me till then. What about you?"

"I think I'd better go powder my nose," Christine had said.

That had been three trips to the toilet ago. She had cleared her palette into the crapper in Allie's house before they left for the restaurant, a second time after the fish course Armand had insisted they order between the appetizer and the main event--trout stuffed with cornmeal, oysters, and bacon on top of fried buffalo mozzarella on pizza-dough rounds--and now, yet again after consuming tournedos Rossini served with a generous side of spaghetti carbonara.

Only to confront this enormous chocolate, pastry, and ice cream desert. It was enough to make a girl puke, if she hadn't puked three times already, though come to think of it, if she did manage to get the desert course down, she probably would have to stick her finger down her throat again. Armand, though, had gobbled it all up without recourse to the men's room, had gone through a whole basket of bread besides, and indeed ordered a refill, and now here he was, after having polished
that off too, wolfing down profiltrole au chocolate as if he hadn't had a square meal in days.

Just watching him was enough to make Christine feel bloated all over again, and though the desert was admittedly quite delicious, she found herself picking rather listlessly at it, as if her tastebuds had somehow become disconnected from the pleasure-center in her brain.

"Cognac?" Armand suggested, after he had spooned up the last drops of chocolate sauce. "It goes quite nicely with walnuts, and perhaps some fresh figs, which are now in season....."

Christine groaned. "I couldn't eat another bite," she said.

"Coffee, then," he insisted, and ordered two Cappucinos with whipped cream that came with tiny platters of bittersweet chocolate truffles dusted with cocoa.

Armand polished off his candies in four quick bits, arched an inquisitive eyebrow at her when he saw that hers were going untouched. Christine nodded, and he plucked up her portion, one after the other, and popped them in his mouth.

"Don't you ever stop eating?" she asked.

Armand Kubescu laughed. "Occasionally," he said, leering at her in time-honored manner, and running his tongue around his lips, though whether this was meant suggestively, or just a matter of capturing the last few errant grains of cocoa dust was impossible to tell.

Still, he did seem to be regarding her as the next prospective course as the waiter approached with the check, and Christine realized that the old moment of truth had now arrived in more ways than one. Did she want to ball this character? More to the point, who was going to pick up the tab for this enormous meal?

She decided that the question of the first part be determined by the answer to the second. If he paid for the whole thing, she would certainly have been wined and dined to a fare-thee-well, and the Code of the West demanded that he get laid. If she was going to be stuck with dutch treat, or, god forbid, if he was the kind of deadbeat who claimed he had forgotten his wallet, he could damn well get stuffed, as if he hadn't already.