"Paul J. McAuley & Kim Newman - In Dreams" - читать интересную книгу автора (Mcauley Paul J)

patio and is built into the third ‘O’ of the letters of the hill.

Bosque de los Acebos, that is what it means, Ros’a’Jericho tells
Annunciato, which means nothing at all to him.

‘Used to make movies here, way way long back before the Treaty of
Albuquerque,’ says La Baiana, sweating like a pig developing little five
o’clock shadow problemo vicinity upper lip. ‘Legend is, if you go down, way
down, way down low, whole damn city is built on a can of film a hundred
kilometres across.’

‘Merda,’ says Ros’a’Jericho. ‘Is city built on rock’n’roll. Bossanova.
Blues. Soul. Samba. Sambada. Is electric guitar is way down low, down
deep deep deep. Great guitar hundred kilometres long, and when great
guitar finally plays, world ends, everything remixed and remade.’

‘Yo yo, rock’n’roll,’ says La Baiana, belching gently.
 ****

Fat Tuesday
Sambada por gringos.

Tragic. You see them, these fat women in shades and hi-thi leotards,
these Japanese boys with all the correct corpor-ate logos and hood
ornaments you know they have bought at the airport and these norte
intellectuals down by the planeload from Vancouver and Medicine Hat
because the carnival is the Last Great Celebration of Folk Culture, trying to
shake it shake it shake it to the drums and the deck and, I tell you, it makes
me want to cry. Like watching something crawled from under a stone
running away from the light. Sambada for gringos? Forget it. You do not
have the street.

Please God, don’t let it rain today.

In every cabaña, in every slum and favela, on every hill, they have
been up since dawn, those who have been to bed (their own, anyone
else’s) perming hair waxing bikini lines slipping/wedging into feathery
flowery leathery rubbery silvery goldy costumes checking the T and A
zones in front of the mirror worrying about lip gloss powder paint running in
heels through the shit and mud for the bus to take them to the assembly
point where directors high as comsats on dexxies mescalin and nervous
energy marshal floats, batterias, vast mobile sound stages for the
guitarristos and remixados like launch platforms for interstellar expeditions,
regiments of bare-cheeked sambaderas bitching about the cellulite levels
of their opponents’ gleaming rumps; phal-anxes of hung-over,
battle-scarred sambaderos in shell-suits and baseball caps of the requisite
colours into some semblance of a procession.

Down on the freeway at the foot of Tres Milagros, La Baiana, dressed
in lace tutu and Herman Goering white with campy upswept biker’s cap,