"Jeff VanderMeer - Flight Is For Those Who Have Not Yet Crossed Over (2)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Vandermeer Jeff)

capital, and his wife, Sessina. She has worked late hours setting up
window displays and may still be awake, perhaps even have supper waiting
for him: huevos rancheros with hot tamales. His stomach rumbles thinking
about it.
But first, D'Souza.
D'Souza sits in the corner farthest from the bars and the only window, his
knees drawn up tight against his chest. Gabriel sneezes from the stench of
shit and piss, wonders yet again if it is necessary to deny political
prisoners a chamberpot. Why haven't the janitors at least hosed down the
cell?
None of the cells have their own illumination and so Gabriel shines his
flashlight on D'Souza. D'Souza's back is crisscrossed with red and black.
Where whole, the skin appears yellow. The spine juts, each bone distinct,
below a ragged mop of black hair.
As the light hits him, D'Souza flinches, hides his head, and tries to
disappear into a wall pitted from years of abuse. Gabriel flinches too,
despite himself. He must remember that this man is an enemy of the state,
a guerilla, a terrorist.
"Number 255," Gabriel says, to confirm and then leave, limping, for home.
No answer.
"Your name, please," Gabriel says.
D'Souza does not stir, but when his voice comes, it has a wiry strength, a
determination ill-matched to the wasted body.
"Roberto Almada D'Souza."
"Good evening to you, Roberto."
"Is it? A good evening?" Weariness in the voice.
"The sky is clear outside, as you could see if you looked. The waves are
still low. Tomorrow, though..."
"I don't need to see. I can smell it. I can taste it. Rotted wood and salt
and the last breaths of lost lovers. Can't you feel it? It will blow us
all away."
Unfolding his long arms and legs, D'Souza rises with gangly imprecision.
He is shrouded in shadow shot through with flashes of skin as he turns
toward Gabriel, who cannot see his eyes.
D'Souza says, "I have children. A father who is blind. How can I feed them
from in here?"
"My father is dead."
In the coffin, his father still wore the shabby black blazer and gray
trousers from his days in prison, looking like an actor trapped in an old
black-and-white silent movie.
"Should I feel sorry for you?" D'Souza says after a swift scrutiny of
Gabriel's face.
"Tell them what they need to know and they will let you go."
A frustrated sigh. "I cannot tell them what I do not know."
"Everyone is innocent here," Gabriel says.
"Everyone except for you."
"It's a living."
"Is it?"
"Good night," Gabriel says and turns to leave.
"Would you take a message to my wife?" The faltering timbre of D'Souza's