Pretty Lethal. Joe Schreiber
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Название: Pretty Lethal
Автор: Joe Schreiber
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Учебная литература
isbn: 9781780311128
isbn:
The whole thing happened so fast that I almost didn’t realize what was happening until it was over. One moment I was following Caleb and Norrie through the automatic sliding doors into the main terminal, and the next, I was alone in the crowd.
I turned around and looked back in the direction I’d come, thinking maybe I’d somehow gotten ahead of them, but they weren’t back there. Off to my left was a big café, and somewhere to my right was a row of ticket windows. I didn’t see Linus or any of the others up there. People buzzed by in every direction, wheeling luggage, toting backpacks. None of them was familiar.
Ten minutes in Venice and I was already lost.
I walked out of the station and down the gray steps leading to the Grand Canal, then stopped in my tracks.
Not until that moment did it really hit me that I was in a city that had rivers instead of streets and boats instead of cars. There were intersections, alleyways, and bridges with gondolas tied up to them. Up above the half-submerged doorways and steps I saw ancient stone hotels and ruined palaces sinking into the lagoon. Fog hung over the surface, seagulls dipping and flicking up the waterway, their bellies glinting white and then disappearing in the dark.
I bought a twenty-four-hour pass for the vaporetto, got on the next boat, and called Norrie.
‘Dude,’ he said, ‘whuh-what happened to you? We thought we luh-lost you for good.’
‘I’m fine. I just lost you guys at the train station.’
‘Whuh-Where are you now?’
‘The Grand Canal.’ I was standing on the deck of a vaporetto with my bag and my guitar case, heading down the canal. Overhead, high gothic arches and crumbling statuary moved slowly past on either side, lit from within like a Pirates of the Caribbean ride. Define lame: I was in Venice, and all I could think of was Disney World. ‘I’ll meet you at the hotel.’
‘Yuh-You buh-better. Linus is fuh-freaking out.’
‘Tell him to calm down. I’ll be there in an hour or so.’
‘It’s the Puh-Pensione Guerrato,’ he said, ‘by the Ruh-Rialto Bridge.’
‘Got it.’
‘Whuh-What are you duh-doing?’
‘Seeing the sights.’
‘It’s luh-like ten o’clock at nuh-night!’
‘Relax, okay? I’ll catch up to you later.’
Norrie fell quiet for just a second, and when he spoke again, there was no trace of a stutter in his voice.
‘You’re going to look for her, aren’t you?’
I drew in a breath. I don’t know whether it was the unwavering certainty in his voice or just that we’d been friends for so long, but I knew instantly that I couldn’t lie to him.
‘Maybe.’
He made an exasperated lip-fart. ‘Whuh-What about Puh-Paula?’
‘What about her?’ my answer came back, probably too quickly. ‘It’s not like I’m cheating on her. I probably won’t even find Gobi anyway, but if I do, we’ll have a cup of coffee, catch up for a few minutes, and that’s it.’
‘Buh-Bullshit.’
‘Hey, believe what you want.’
‘Thuh-This is a ruh-really buh-bad idea.’
I took in a breath and let it out. ‘Yeah. I know.’
‘I nuh-know you know,’ Norrie said miserably. ‘Juh-Just like I know yuh-you’re going to duh-do it anyway.’ He was silent again for a moment. ‘Shit. At least tuh-tell her wuh-we said hello.’ Then, with more conviction: ‘And duh-don’t stuh-stay out all nuh-night! Wuh-We’ve got a gig tomorrow!’
‘Okay,’ I said, and hung up.
Up ahead I saw what looked like the open lagoon, the boat nudging its way up to the San Marco stop. On the shore, two guys in long dark coats and immaculate pointy-toed leather shoes were smoking and sipping espressos out of paper cups by the dock.
‘Excuse me.’ My voice came out froggy and hoarse, like I was getting a cold. ‘I’m looking for Harry’s Bar.’
‘Like Hemingway, si ?’
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘I mean, I guess.’
The first man smiled and said something, and they both laughed.
‘I’m sorry, I don’t speak Italian.’
‘He said that even an idiot American could find that place from here,’ the other man said, and as they turned and started walking away, I saw the sign behind them in the window, in art deco letters: HARRY’S BAR.
Now that it was right in front of me, I wasn’t sure that I was ready to go in. I walked around the corner to the side of the building that faced the canal. Standing on my tiptoes, I could just see inside, where a group of fashionably dressed patrons were sitting at the bar.
This was it.
A voice in my head whispered, Do you really want to do this?
But I was already walking inside.
‘Waiting for Somebody’ – Paul Westerberg
Harry’s was a long yellow room, warm and dry, with dark wooden tables glowing beneath wall sconces and an old metal fan in the corner. The bar itself was only long enough for the half-dozen patrons that I’d seen through the window, gathered together talking and laughing as if they had known one another all their lives. The bartender was wearing a pressed white tuxedo jacket. When I walked in, he didn’t say anything, just gazed at my wet jeans and windbreaker, and the guitar case at my feet.
‘Can I get a Mountain Dew or something?’
‘Mountain . . . Do?’
‘Or a Coke?’
A sigh. ‘Si, Coke.’
I sat down at the end of the bar next to a glass cabinet of souvenirs for sale and sipped my ten-euro Coke, staring at the door. I didn’t know what I was doing here.
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