"George Alec Effinger - City On Sand" - читать интересную книгу автора (Effinger George Alec)

of the marching feet against the rough stones of the
pavement was likewise without precision. Ernst frowned,
looking at his own frayed, stained suit. If things could be
arranged according to merit, then certainly he would be
granted a better situation than this. He remembered the
white linen suit he had owned when he first came to the city.
14
 The City on the Sand
by George Alec Effinger


He had worn it proudly, contemptuous of the city's natives
and their hanging, shapeless garments, all darkly sweat-
marked, torn, and foul. That suit had not lasted long. It,
along with the white, wide-brimmed hat and his new boots,
had been stolen within a week, while he indulged himself at
the Sourour baths. He had never returned to that
establishment, nor any other in the Arab quarter. Now he
looked much like those he had disdained on his arrival, and,
strangely, that brought him a certain pleasure as well. At
least he didn't seem to be a mere newcomer. He had been
initiated. He belonged, as all the cityful of mongrels belonged.
So the time passed with Ernst trying mightily to ignore the
exhibition in the street. Often the movements of the crowd
opened spaces and he could see the garishly outfitted militia.
The workmen and slaves of the city cheered them, and this
made Ernst even more cheerless. He swallowed some of the
local liquor in a gulp, holding the small wooden bowl on the
flat of one palm. What good is that army? he wondered. The
Jaish had no weapons. An army of no threats. And, beyond
that, thought Ernst as he waved once more to M. Gargotier,
they have no enemies. There is nothing on all of this damned
sand but this single city. Just bread and circuses, he thought,
observing the crowd's excitement. Just an entertainment for
the groundlings. He had other, more important things to
consider.
“Eugenie,” he thought, “magnificent horror of my youth, I
would trade my eternal portion to have you with me now.
How old you must be! How like these cheap dorsal identities I
see before me, without personality, without more than the
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 The City on the Sand
by George Alec Effinger


instantaneous appetites, without the barest knowledge of me.
They, who have drifted here from the living world, have been
charred slowly to that condition. They have greedily accepted
their lot, their badge of grime, their aristo suppuration, their
plebeian filth. They left Europe as I did, to change slowly and