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

fruit
and flesh. What sweet relief it would be to press his face up to one of
the outer windows; then he would see, framed by moonlight, the breakers
far below tumbling against a black sand beach. The first refreshing
hint
of summer gales might touch his face in forgiveness, but afterwards, he
would only have to return to the catwalk and the last prisoner, Roberto
D'Souza.
Roberto D'Souza has been held for five days and nights, charged with
aiding the guerrillas who live in the northern mountains and call
 themselves Zapata. Gabriel has nothing but contempt for the rebels. If
not
for them, rationing would be less severe and goods would be more
plentiful
in the stores.
Gabriel's pace quickens, for he can leave once he has checked on
D'Souza.
He can drive the twenty miles to his small house outside Carbajal, the
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