"Asimov, Isaac - Izzy and the Father of Terror" - читать интересную книгу автора (Asimov Isaac)

3. Izzy

Finally, tears gushed. I was sitting on a
curb by the highway before dawn. I was
dawn, not quite risen over a small, dark
man on a desert highway. I was a pool of
tears splash-fed by a biped above my
gutter. I was a tremble, a sob, a cicada,
a dead soul listening in. I don’t know
what I was. I was a car coming, high beam
illumining tear-slicked face, driver
coming in earshot of moaning figure, alone
in the desert, in the dark.

The car stopped a few yards past me, then
purred back. The passenger door flung
open, and a man leaned out, balding,
single-browed, a skinny man with a nasal
accent: "Get in, Jack. We ain’t got all
day."

I smelled jasmine, sweet and piercing.
Inside, beneath a red tassel hanging from
the rearview, a small soapstone elephant
was lit by the map light above the dash.
My tusks curled into the tangle of
threads. I had many arms. In my hands were
medicine bottles, knives, diamonds,
skulls, crushed demons, and snakes. A
naked woman scissored me.

I was sitting in Ganesha’s lap. My legs
embraced the elephant’s hips. My heels
massaged his buttocks. My nipples rubbed
his chest. I smiled, but held my lips
enticingly distant. The Indian behind the
wheel stroked my back.

Or perhaps I was from Pakistan. I was
irritated at Izzy. I, the driver, said,
"If I had wanted like this, I would have
stayed at my motel, Izzy. Do we have to
pick up everybody?"

"Exactly, Sarvaduhka," One-brow shot back.
"That’s who this piece of merchandise is:
everybody! Ain’t you, Jack?"

I pulled my sleeve across my face to erase