"Tim Lebbon - The Repulsion" - читать интересную книгу автора (Lebbon Tim)

locals alike, sat outside cafes and bars doing likewise. Waiters buzzed
them like black and white bees, balancing impossibly large trays on
unfeasibly splayed fingers.
Dean suggested a beer, but Maria wanted to get away from the tourist areas
immediately. He followed her lead, wishing they could be walking side by
side instead of in single file. As he was not holding her hand his own
ached for something to do, so he lit up a cigarette.
"Thought you were going to give up on this holiday?" Maria said, glancing
back at the sound of the match popping alight.
"Thought we were going to be together this holiday," Dean retorted. He
tried on a smile to take the edge off his voice, but the damage was
already done. Maria shrugged, turned and started towards an arched walkway
between two shops.
As they strolled, the streets began to lose themselves in darkened
alleyways. Washing overhung the paths like sleeping bats, dripping soapy
saliva to the ground. Traffic argued at roundabouts, and the sea purred
onto the beach, constantly, relentlessly. Between buildings they could see
up to the cliff tops, where ruined churches or Saracen watchtowers
commanded wise old views of the sea and town. The whole place oozed
history, wallowing in its past; each slab in the path possessed a million
untold stories. And it was hot. The sun splashed from whitewashed walls
and twisted its way behind Dean's sunglasses.
They saw only locals, as if this were the real Amalfi and the chaos of the
square was there only to appease marketing managers at package tour
operators. Sometimes the people they passed would nod a curt greeting,
other times Dean felt unseen. They walked for twenty minutes without
emerging from the warren of alleys and paths. Steps led up and down again,
and more than once Dean was certain that they had crossed their own path
from a different direction.
It was strange how the wonder of the place touched them individually and
distinctly, as if its magic sought to emphasise the bad air between them.
Sometimes it was almost physical, an impenetrable barrier forcing them
apart like similar magnetic poles. Amalfi had so much to offer; Dean and
Maria took their fill of different things.
"I'm hungry," Dean said. "Airline meals don't do much to fill you up.
Pizza?"
"If you like." Maria stopped and leant over a fountain, its outlet
concealed in the groin of a five hundred year old stone boy. Damp circles
had marked her blouse beneath her arms, and a haze of perspiration clung
to the fine hairs on her top lip. She used to sweat like that when they
were making love.
They turned around, and it seemed natural for Dean to lead the way back.
At some point -- he could not really tell when -- the echoes of two sets
of footsteps turned into one. When he looked over his shoulder Maria had
vanished.
"Mi!" It seemed all right to use his familiar name for her now that she
might not hear it. "You hiding?" He walked back up the path, glancing at
closed doors. When he looked between buildings he could no longer see the
cliffs; now, there was only sky. A flight of worn stairs curved down from
higher up and he could hear hesitant footsteps descending, but their owner