"Fat Tuesday" - читать интересную книгу автора (McDonald Ian)

reaches toward the pure white hand and is drawn up into heaven. Over rooftops,
she leads him, through forests of aerials and satellite dishes, past cooling
towers and rotary clotheslines and coiling serpentine airco ducts, across
rooftop marijuana gardens and coca plantations, leaping through the yawning dark
over deep dark alleys while the never-ending stream of taillights winds and
wends beneath them and the Lobos, released from luminous imprisonment, go loping
along the shining sidewalks, howling at the grapefruit moon. And the glass
guitar drips a trail of minims and crochets like the silver slime of a night
snail on the side of the basilica of Santa Barbara.

‘Down. Now.’

The big jacked-up mauve and yellow 4X4 is circling, growling in the parking lot
of Seсor Barato All-Nite super-mart like a bull in the ring, pawing at the
piss-stained concrete with its monster balloon tyres. The Lobos, war drums
a-swinging, arrive in a wave of uniform pink and green as Annunciato and the
angel drop from the swinging end of the fire escape and hit the ground.

‘In, in.’ The driver is an old old black man - more incredible even than the
silver lamй angel - already gunning the accelerator, tyres smoking on the
concrete. ‘In!’ Doors slam.

‘Caution, caution, your seatbelt is not properly engaged, please engage your
seatbelt,’ says a made-in-Yokohama chip-generated conscience. Lowriders slam to
a halt beneath Seсor Barato’s flashing sign. Grinning and gabbling like a loco,
the old black man throws the beast into four-wheel drive and up they go on those
big monster wheels right over the tops of the lowriders and out into the neon
and smog of the boulevard.

* * * *

їPorque?

Because on this Black Sunday night Annunciato killed a Blood Wolf with a glass
guitar.

The sambadrome had been jumping. Word is up, compadres. Tonight tonight tonight
is the big Play-Off. Tonight the last two guitarristos do battle to the beat of
hip-slung drum and mixing desk for the glory glory hallelujah of leading all
Birimbao Hill on Fat Tuesday.

Yelping and blowing football whistles, his brother Lions’a’Judah had carried him
shoulder high down the precipitous paths of the favela, this boy from nowhere
who had swept the wing play-offs with his glass guitar. Have you not heard?
Tonight tonight tonight the red gold and green of Judah will smash the pink and
green of the Lobos.

As the rival guitarristos were borne into the sambadrome, the batteria had
struck up, those aristocrats of rhythm, drumming up an avalanche of sound that
seemed to sweep all Birimbao down before it into the valley. And the remixados