"Jeff VanderMeer - Three Days in a Border Town" - читать интересную книгу автора (Vandermeer Jeff)

In your book, you have written down a joke that is not really a joke. A man in a bar told it to you right
before he tried to grope you. It's the last thing you remember as you finally drift away.
Two men are fighting in the dust, in the sand, in the shadow of a mountain. One says the City exists. The
other denies this truth. Neither has ever been there. They fight until they both die of exhaustion and thirst.
Their bodies decay. Their bones reveal themselves. These bones fall in on each other. One day, the City
rises over them like a new sun. But it is too late.
You loved Delorn. You loved his sly wit in the taverns, playing darts, joking with his friends. You loved
the rough grace of his body. You loved the line of his jaw. You loved his hands on your breasts, between
your legs. You loved the way he rubbed your back when you were sore from sentinel duty. You loved
that he fought his impatience and his anger when he was with you, tried to turn them into something else.
You loved him.




Day Two
On your second day in the border town, you wake from dreams of a nameless man to the sound of
trumpets. Trumpets and...accordions? You sit up in bed. Your mouth feels sour. Your back is sore again.
You're ravenous. Trumpets! The thought of any musical instrument in this place more optimistic than a
drum astounds you.

You quickly get dressed and walk out to the main street in time to watch yet another funeral procession
for a man not yet dead.

The sides of the streets are crowded and noisy -- where have all these people come from? -- and they
are no longer drab and dull. Now they wear clothing in bright greens, reds, and blues. Some of them
clap. Some of them whistle. Others stomp their feet. From the edge of the crowd it is hard to see, so you
push through to the front. A man claps you on the back, another nudges you. A woman actually hugs
you. Are you, then, suddenly accepted?

When you reach the curbside, you encounter yet another odd funeral procession. Six men dressed in
black robes carry the coffin slowly down the street. In front and back come jugglers and a few horses,
decorated with thin colored paper -- streamers of pale purple, green, yellow. There is a scent like
oranges.

To the sides stand children with boxy holographic devices in their hands. They are using these toys to
generate the ghosts of clowns, fire eaters, bearded ladies, and the like. Because the devices are very old,
the holograms are patchy, ethereal, practically worn away at the edges. The oldest holograms, of a m'kat
and a fleshdog, are the most grainy and yet still send a shiver up your spine. Harbingers from the past.
Ghosts with the still very real ability to inflict harm.

But the most remarkable thing about the whole process is that the man in the coffin is, again, not dead!
He has been tied into the coffin this time, but is thrashing around.

"Put it back in my brain!" he screams, over and over again. "Put it back in my brain! Please. I'm begging
you. Put it back!" His eyes are wide and moist, his scalp covered in a film of blood that looks like red
sweat.

You stand there, stunned, and watch as the procession lurches by. Sometimes someone in the crowd will