"Alan Dean Foster - Impossible Places" - читать интересную книгу автора (Foster Alan Dean)

depositing money in the bank at Puerto Maldonado. Carlos guarded the cash as though it were his own.
A month later, Max appointed him foreman.
Even then he averted his eyes at Nina’s passing, especially when they were alone together. He knew
she was curious about him, perhaps even intrigued, but he was careful. This was a great undertaking, and
he was a patient man.
Once, he bumped up against her in the kitchen. Apologizing profusely, he retreated while averting his
gaze, stumbling clumsily into hanging pots and the back counter. She smiled at his confusion. It was good
that she could not see his eyes, because the contact had inflamed him beyond measure, and he knew that
if he lifted his gaze to her face it would burn right through her.
Each week, each day, he let himself edge closer to her. A tiny slip here, a slight accidental touch there.
He trembled when he suspected she might be responding.
There came a night filled with rain like nails and a suffocating blackness. The lodge was empty of
tourists and scientists. Max’s progress back from town would be slowed. The Indians were all across the
river, sheltering in their village.
It began with inconsequential conversation intended to pass the time and ended with them making love
on the big bed in the back building, after they shook the loose hair off the sheets. It was more than he
could have hoped for, all he had been dreaming of during the endless months of screaming anticipation.
She exploded atop him, her screams rising even above the hammering rain, her long legs threatening to
break his ribs.
When it was over, they talked.
She had been born of noble blood and poverty. Max was older than she would have chosen, but she
had enjoyed little say in the matter. As a husband he was kind but boring, pleasant but inattentive.
He would not take her with him to town because someone had to remain behind to oversee the lodge
or the Indians would steal everything. Nor did he trust anyone to do business for him in Maldonado. He
had discovered her in Lima, had made arrangements with her parents, and had brought her back with
him. Ever since, she had been slowly going mad in the jungle, here at the foothills of the Andes. She had
no future and no hope.
Carlos knew better.
He did not hesitate, and the enormity of his intent at first frightened her despite her anguish. Gradually
he won her over.
They would have to be careful. No one, not even the Indians, could be allowed to suspect. They
would have to wait for the right day, the right moment. Afterward, they would be free. They would sell
the lodge, take the savings, and he would show her places she had hardly dreamed of. Rio, Buenos
Aires, Caracas—the great and bright cities of the southern continent.
They had to content themselves with sly teasing and furtive meetings upon Max’s return. They touched
and caressed and made love behind his back. Trusting, he did not see, nor did he hear the laughter. Not
only was he a cuckold, he was deaf and blind. Carlos’s resolve stiffened. The man was pathetic. He
would be better off out of his misery.
“I think he suspects,” Nina confided to him one afternoon out among the tea leaves. They were
supposed to be inspecting the bushes, and Carlos had insisted on inspecting something else instead. Nina
had agreed readily to the change of itinerary, laughing and giggling. Only afterward did she express
concern.
“You are crazy, love. He sees nothing.”
 She shook her head dubiously. “He says nothing. That does not mean he does not see. I can tell.”
“Has he said anything?”
“No,” she admitted. “But he is different.”
“He hasn’t said anything to me.”
“He wouldn’t. That is not his way. But I can feel a difference.”
He touched her, and she closed her eyes and inhaled sensuously. “When you do that I cannot
concentrate. I am worried, my darling.”