"Michael Swanwick - The Feast of Saint Janis" - читать интересную книгу автора (Swanwick Michael)

set, immediately below the first pair.
The woman stood perfectly motionless. Wolf couldnтАЩt stop staring at her
nipples; it wasnтАЩt just the number, it was the fact of their being visible at
all. So quickly had he taken on this landтАЩs taboos.
The woman threw her head back and laughed. She put one hand on her
hip, thrust the hip out at an angle, and lifted the microphone to her lips.
She spoke, and her voice was harsh and raspy.
тАЬAbout a year ago I lived in a rowhouse in Newark, right? Lived on the
third floor, and I thought I had my act together. But nothing was going
right, I wasnтАЩt getting any . . . action. Know what I mean? No talent cominтАШ
around. And there was this chick down the street, didnтАЩt have much and
she was doing okay, so I say to myself: WhatтАЩs wrong, Janis? How come
sheтАЩs doing so good and you ainтАЩt gettinтАЩ any? So I decided to check it out,
see what she had that I didnтАЩt. And one day I get up early, look out the
window, and I see this chick out there hustling! I mean, she was doing the
streets at noon! So I said to myself, Janis, honey, you ainтАЩt even trying.
And when ya want action, ya gotta try. Yeah. Try just a little bit harder.тАЭ
The music swept up out of nowhere, and she was singing: тАЬTry-iiii,
Try-iiii, Just a little bit harder...тАЭ
And unexpectedly, it was good. It was like nothing he had ever heard,
but he understood it, almost on an instinctual level. It was world-culture
music. It was universal.
Kaplan dug fingers into WolfтАЩs arm, brought his mouth up to WolfтАЩs ear.
тАЬYou see? You see?тАЭ he demanded. Wolf shook him off impatiently. He
wanted to hear the music.
The concert lasted forever, and it was done in no time at all. It left Wolf
sweaty and emotionally spent. Onstage, the woman was energy
personified. She danced, she strutted, she wailed more power into her
songs than seemed humanly possible. Not knowing the original, Wolf was
sure it was a perfect recreation. It had that feel.
The audience loved her. They called her back for three encores, and then
a fourth. Finally, she came out, gasped into the mike, тАЬI love ya, honeys, I
truly do. But pleaseтАФno more. I just couldnt do it.тАЭ She blew a kiss, and
was gone from the stage.
The entire audience was standing. Wolf among them, applauding
furiously. A hand fell on WolfтАЩs shoulder, and he glanced to his side,
annoyed. It was Kaplan. His face was flushed and he said, тАЬCome on.тАЭ He
pulled Wolf free of the crowd and backstage to a small dressing room. Its
door was ajar and people were crowded into it. One of them was the
singer, hair stringy and out-of-place, laughing and gesturing widely with a
Southern Comfort bottle. It was an antique, its label lacquered to the
glass, and three-quarters filled with something amber-colored. тАЬJanis, this
isтАФтАЭ Kaplan began.
тАЬThe name Is Maggie,тАЭ she sang gleefully. тАЬMaggie Horowitz. I ainтАЩt no
dead blues singer. And donтАЩt you forget it.тАЭ
тАЬThis is a fan of yours, Maggie. From Africa.тАЭ He gave Wolf a small
shove. Wolf hesitantly stumbled forward, grimacing apologetically at the
people he displaced.
тАЬWhee-howdy!тАЭ Maggie whooped. She downed a slug from her bottle.
тАЬPleased ta meetcha, Ace. Kinda light for an African, aintcha?тАЭ