"Robert Rankin - Waiting for Godalming" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robert Rankin)

Cormerant was unaware of his awareness.

At the business end of the barber's shop, Stravino went about his
business. He teased the tip of a mustachio with a heated curling
tong and made mouth music between his rarely polished teeth.
"Living la vida loca in a gagga da vida," sang the Greek.
"Cha cha cha," sang Count Otto, in ready response.
It might well be considered fitting at this point to offer the reader
some description of Stravino. But let this only be said: Stravino
looked exactly the way that a Greek barber should look. Exactly.
Even down to that complicated cookery thing they always wear
above their left eyebrow and the shaded area on the right cheek
that looks a bit like a map of Indo-China.
So a description here is hardly necessary.
"Hey ho hoopla," said the Greek, breaking song in midflow to
examine his handiwork. "Now does that not curl like a maiden's
muff and spring like the darling buds of May?"
"It does too," agreed the count. "You are za man, Stan. You are
za man."
"I am, I truly am." Stravino plucked a soft brush from the breast
pocket of his barbering coat and dusted snippings from the
gingham cloth that cloaked the count's broad shoulders. The
professional name for such a cloth is a Velocette, named after its
inventor Cyrano Velocette, the original barber of Seville.
Stravino whisked away the Velocette with a conjurer's flourish
and fan-dancer's fandango. "All done," said he.
"Your servant, sir." The count rose to an improbable height and
clicked his heels together. "It is, as ever, za pleasure doing
business with you."
"One and threepence," said the Greek. "We call it one and six,
the tip included."
"Scandalous," said the Bohemian count. But he said it with a
smile and settled his account.
"Captain," said the Greek, bidding the count a fond farewell and
addressing his next client. "Captain, please to be stepping up to
the chair and parking the bum thereupon." Captain Ian rose from
his seat and made his way slowly to the barber's chair. It had to
be said that the captain did not look a well man. His face was
deathly pale. His eyes had a haunted hunted look and his mouth
was a bitter thin red line.
Stravino tucked the Velocette about the captain's collar.
"What is it for you today?" he asked.
"For me today?" The captain gazed at his ghostly reflection in the
tarnished mirror. The mirror was draped about with Spanish
souvenir windmill necklaces and votive offerings placed there to
honour St Christopher, the patron saint of barbers. On the glass
shelf beneath were jars of brilliantine, shaving mugs and
porcelain figures, statuettes of Priapus, carved soapstone
marmosets and Stravino's spare truss.1
"Do what thou wilt," said the blanched soldier, who had studied