"Kim Wilkins - The Autumn Castle" - читать интересную книгу автора (Wilkins Kim)

Maranovich, first time out of Belarus where he had spent his life working as an electrician. Christine had a
soft spot for Fabiyan especially. He had conscientiously learned German before taking up his fellowship,
only to find that English was the linguistic currency at Hotel Mandy-Z. He was picking it up quickly, but
sometimes Christine had to translate for him into German. Not that her German was faultless, but she had
lived here briefly in the seventies with her parents and a refresher course taken over the spring left her
with a better grasp than the rest.

"So," Gerda said to Jude, snaking her arm around his shoulders, "I like your painting. Nearly finished, is
it?"

"Nearly."

"You must be so proud of him, Christine," Gerda said, smiling her Cheshire-cat smile.

"Yes, I am."

Fabiyan leaned down and handed Christine a beer. She sipped it gratefully, then rested it on the scarred
table. If she were to be totally honest, she didn't think much of anybody's art in the hotel. All those
abstract, impenetrable shapes and images. It baffled her far more than it delighted her. But she was
perfectly willing to admit she wasn't an expert and she hadn't the faintest idea about what artists felt or
intended, even after four years with Jude.

Pete, who sat next to her, pointed at her beer and said, "Did you know that Germans drink around 127
liters of beer per person per year?"

"No, I did not know that." Christine smiled. She was discovering that Pete had an endless store of facts
and figures. He had been lauded as a genius since he was twelve, and perhaps that meant he had never
outgrown some of his adolescent obsessions.

"It's topped only by the Czechs, who drink 160 liters."

"What's that in pints, Pete?" Jude asked.

Pete looked skyward briefly, did the math, then returned with, "About 336."

Jude doubled over with laughter, deep lines arrowing out from his eyes. She loved his smile, the gorgeous
changeability of his expression. His face settled smooth again as he got serious about the business of
lighting a cigarette.

"I don't know how many liters they piss every day though," Pete added in a solemn tone.

Gerda, as she did so often, looked at Pete with an expression bordering on alarm. She hadn't caught the
rhythms of his humor yet. Jude glanced across at Christine and winked; she felt herself smile and blush
like a teenager. She downed more beer and began to shed the day's despondency.

The first band finished and the second came onтАФDuke Ellington in thick German accents. Christine grew
drunk but Gerda was always drunker. Sometime around two a.m., while Pete, Jude, and Fabiyan were
making enthusiastic conversation with Sparky, the club owner, Gerda pulled Christine down next to her
on the sofa.