"Michael Kandel - Strange Invasion" - читать интересную книгу автора (Kandel Michael)

"Order what you like, go ahead," I said to the children, who after a moment of hesitation charged the
counter. I made a quick exit.
There were no followers when I walked through the drizzle to the bus station. I was proud of myself.
Perhaps, after all, I might be able to deal with the invaders, too, when they came. Avoid confrontation,
be creative.
The bus took four and a half hours. By the time we arrived, I was too exhausted to think of supper.
The jostling, the fumes, the crowd of people in the seats and aisle, the noise had worn me out. All 1
wanted was to get into bed. But my room was too hot. The fan didn't help a bit—and the top sheet
couldn't be flung off because of the mosquitoes.
What if I overslept Thursday? Would that be the end of the world? I kept checking my watch. Neon
snakes, smelling of sauerkraut, slithered on and off the furniture. Or voices called my name, with monster
laughter. I wished I could talk to Lucille. But she had said to me: "Wally, you've done beautifully on your
own. And now you'll be on your own in a way that would challenge anyone. I know you can do it—I
have faith in you—but it will be easier, better, if you let go of my hand." I was to call, she said, only in
dire emergencies.
Speaking to Lucille in my thoughts and imagining her answers made me feel better. But sleep didn't
come. How would I function tomorrow, without sleep? I dozed, on and off, until the dawn. At dawn I
got up, afraid that if I stayed in bed, I might fall into a deep sleep, with my fatigue, and miss the invasion. I
went out to have a look at Barrancabermeja.
Barrancabermeja was an interesting town, full of boats and docks along the wide river—the
Magdalena—and there were mountains in the background, on both sides, but one could not call the
place charming or picturesque. It was industrial. Smokestacks, a big oil refinery. The houses on the
perimeter of the factories, crammed together, were squalid. I was reminded a little of Pittsburgh.
I had breakfast at a greasy spoon on the waterfront. Killed time reading a newspaper. Drank coffee,
dozed, checked my watch—until a man came over to my table.
"You are a salesman," he said.
I shrugged and invited him to sit down.
He introduced himself as Velez—I didn't catch the first name—from Velez, where he had a
plantation on the Suarez. Mr. Velez had a lot to say about taxes. Experiencing tax difficulties, he was
interested in textile production in Barrancabermeja, and believed that the future of northern Colombia
was water power.
My name? I made something up. Mr. Velez observed that although I spoke with barely an accent I
was obviously not of this part of the world.
"How can you tell?" I asked.
"The cast of your skin shows that you are unaccustomed to the heat. In Maracaibo, once, I met a
sailor from Finland with exactly such skin."
The heat was in fact becoming uncomfortable. The sun, rising in the sky, had already reached a
surprising height. But we were not far, I remembered, from the Equator.
I admitted that I was not a native. I came from central Argentina, I told Mr. Velez: the Rio Negro
province, Viedma. Interested, he asked me question after question about the area's commerce. I excused
myself; I had an appointment, I said. He shook my hand and gave me his card. He looked at me
expectantly, waiting—I realized—for my card in exchange. I explained that I had no card.
"You are a singular salesman," he said, shaking my hand again. "But I wish you every success in
Santander."
"Thank you."
The high meadow was in sight. On the other side of the smokestacks and the bridge, it faced the
harbor, overlooking the Magdalena. To get to the bridge, I had to pick my way through a maze of
narrow streets, but every choice I made proved correct. (My peripheral at work, I guessed.) The sun
overhead was brutal—or it may have been the humidity—but the hat and sunglasses helped. I removed
my jacket and slung it over my shoulder.