Mask of the Andes. Jon Cleary

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ stumps of teeth against whitish gums.

      Black stains ran down from the corners of his mouth where the saliva had dribbled. His skin was yellow and there were deep purple rings round his eyes. Though he was unconscious, indeed looked dead, his pale lips occasionally quivered, like a silent appeal for help.

      ‘He’s a goner,’ said Taber. ‘He’ll be dead in twelve months at the outside.’

      ‘You don’t sound very upset,’ said Carmel, turning away, feeling suddenly cold: it was as if for the first time she had seen the skull of a living man, smelt the turned earth of his waiting grave.

      ‘I’ve spent twelve years among people who die every day from malnutrition. I’m still upset by it, but I have to keep it to myself. That chap won’t die from drug addiction, that’ll only be the means. He’ll die because he’s never had enough to eat, because he was born to a miserable bloody existence that no human being, in today’s world, should have to endure!’

      ‘You’re angry again,’ she said. ‘But this time I understand.’

      ‘I should hope to Christ you would,’ he said and did not apologize. ‘If you don’t, after seeing that, there’s no bloody hope for him and his people. Or for you.’

      They had come out of the market into a plaza. They walked beneath a colonnade above which hung farolas, the closed-in, carved wooden balconies from old Spain. Hidalgos of past centuries had walked here, secure in their own present, careless of the future; now their descendants, old men in stiff white collars and stiff black suits, walked with the same dignity but not the same confidence. The stores along the colonnade that once had only wooden shutters now had plate-glass windows; none of the stores had any customers, as if all stocks had been sold and the store-owners had not thought it worth while reordering. Then Taber and Carmel passed a café crowded with criollo boys and girls of high school age; the place bulged with the high spirits that passed for optimism. Above the door was a carved profile of St Sebastian, chipped and smoothed by age: the patron saint of the town looked worn and dejected. Beneath the carving was an enamel sign advertising a soft drink.

      ‘Inca Cola?’ Carmel’s eyebrows went up in amusement.

      ‘The Incas never discovered the wheel, but they used clocks, guano fertilizer, they built aqueducts and bridges, they knew all about agricultural terracing and they knew how to make metal alloys. Why shouldn’t they have invented Coca-Cola?’

      ‘You’re putting me on. Inca Cola.’ She shook her head and they walked on. ‘I’ll bet there’s some American influence there.’ He said nothing, and she looked up at him. ‘Are you anti-American, Mr Taber?’

      ‘I’m not anti-anyone till people make fools of themselves.’

      ‘Have we made fools of ourselves down here?’

      ‘Sometimes. You still have to make your biggest mistake.’

      ‘What’s that?’

      ‘Turning your back on South America because it won’t develop the way Washington thinks it should. Anti-Communist, capitalistic and with preference for only American investment.’

      ‘Do you think we will turn our back on it?’

      ‘I hope not. There are some people in Washington who are at last beginning to realize that nationalism and Communism are not the same thing. There are a lot of nationalists on this continent, in this country, who have no more love for Communism than they have for your country. But unless they sing God Bless America and let American investment come in here with no strings attached, Washington wants nothing to do with them.’

      ‘Don’t you think our State Department knows what to do?’

      ‘Forgive the vulgarity, Miss McKenna, but your State Department, when it comes to South America, always reminds me of The Perfumed Garden. It has twenty-five positions on any given situation.’

      She laughed so heartily that two of the passing old men turned back to look at her. ‘I don’t think that’s vulgar.’

      ‘I didn’t think you would. But I apologized, just in case.’

      She stopped laughing. ‘Why did you think I wouldn’t think it was vulgar?’

      ‘Listening to you the other day. You were flat out trying to prove how broadminded you were.’

      ‘You’re vulgarly rude, you know that?’ She looked at him sideways, studying him hard for the first time; then she looked ahead again and nodded. ‘I was trying too hard. I always do that among strangers. You may not believe it, Mr Taber, but I’m basically a shy girl. The shy ones are always the ones who try too hard.’

      They passed out of the shade of the colonnade, feeling the warmth of the sun as soon as they emerged, crossed the road and were moving into the small garden square in the centre of the plaza when they heard the shots.

      Taber at once put his arm about Carmel, pulling her to him and looking wildly around. The shots had been close, too close for comfort. The small pack of bootblacks at the intersection of the paths through the square suddenly scattered, diving into the shrubs like so many shrieking birds; a flock of birds exploded out of the bushes, whistling frantically, and swept away out of sight. Half a dozen women who had been sitting on the ground at the foot of the statue of Simon Bolivar in the centre of the square flung themselves flat, their faces pressed into the mosaic tiles of the path. A small child came running towards the group and its mother screamed at it to get down; the child fell down, skidding along on its face, and for one awful moment Taber thought it had been hit. Then as he pushed Carmel down on to the path he saw the child crawl forward and disappear into the spreadeagled cluster of women as into a pile of dark rocks. A bullet smacked into a seat right beside Taber and Carmel, hit the ironwork and went ricocheting off with that whine that was both frightening and fascinating, Another bullet chipped a piece off the Great Liberator; Taber, looking up, saw that the statue was pockmarked with bullet holes. There were more shots, several yells, then suddenly there was a dull boom.

      Taber raised his head and looked across the square. People were lying flat everywhere, even the old men in their stiff black suits: dignity was no protection against indiscriminate bullets. Smoke was flowering out of the doors and windows of the bank on the corner of the plaza; a man staggered out of the front door, his hands to his face, and collapsed in a sitting position on the pavement. Two cars, engines roaring, were pulling away from in front of the bank. Suddenly one of them stalled, but the other, tyres screeching, swung round the square, heading for the main street that ran out of town. Three men fell out of the stalled car and came running across the square; the second car had shuddered to a stop and was waiting for them. One of the Indian women at the foot of the statue sat up, her back to the advancing bank robbers. One of the men ran right into her, plunging over her and falling headlong. His pistol shot out of his hand, slid across the tiled path towards Taber like a challenge. He moved his head up and the gun slid in under him, clunking against his breastbone.

      The bank robber, a thickset man in a black hood, scrambled to his feet and hurled himself at Taber. The latter rolled aside, away from Carmel, automatically snatching at the gun as he did so. The man aimed a kick at Taber’s head but missed as the Englishman continued rolling. Taber came up on one knee, the pistol raised; then he froze, the gun a heavy weight in the hand that could barely hold it. The other two bank robbers, both hooded, stood over him, their guns aimed directly at his head. He drew a deep breath, then tossed the gun at the feet of its owner. The man picked it up, СКАЧАТЬ