"Resnick, Mike - Bibi" - читать интересную книгу автора (Resnick Mike)

"Did you see?" asked Elizabeth. At least, she could escape into the discipline of her profession. She could do something. "Her lesions actually seem to be shrinking."
There was a drug on the market that reduced lesions -- chicken pox or Kaposi's sarcoma, it made no difference -- but it was so expensive they'd need the treasure of King Solomon's mines to pay for it.
"Any chance of remission?" Jeremy kept his face out of the firelight so she wouldn't see the wild hope that heated it. At least, he hoped it was hope and not the first episode of night sweats.
Elizabeth put a hand out and gently touched his arm. "God only knows," she said softly. "There's always a chance, Jeremy. Always. And you're a non-progressor. Every day, every month that you hold out increases the chances of a cure, and gives us more time to study you. When we get back to the compound, I'll test your blood again." She paused. "I wish we could bring her back. And I wish the old lady's _bibi_ would show up. You know, they tell me she cured one of the other villagers. They say he was dying of AIDS. That can't be true, of course, but I'd still love to learn her methods."
"Don't tell me you believe in witch doctors?" asked Jeremy with a smile.
"I don't believe in all the superstition that goes along with it, but some of these folk healers have stumbled on medicines that are new to science. There are plants that no one has classified yet, and it's a fair bet that some of them will be effective against certain diseases. There's a Nobel Prize waiting for the scientist who brings back the right plants." She stared at the fire. "Yes, I wish I could convince the old woman to introduce me to this _bibi_ of hers. Who knows what we might learn from her?"
"Maybe after a few days, when they see we don't mean any harm..." began Jeremy.
"They already know that, Jeremy," said Elizabeth. "Half of them have been to the camp at one time or another." She poked at the fire with the stick, silent for awhile. A sudden chorus of warning screams and barks from a troop of baboons told them that a leopard was in the neighborhood. The noise continued for a couple of minutes, growing gradually softer as the troop retreated higher up their trees and the leopard decided to seek other prey.
Jeremy fumbled again for the letter in his pocket, brought it out, stared at the once-familiar handwriting for perhaps the tenth time that day, and began to tuck it back into the pocket.
"You're driving me crazy with that letter!" snapped Elizabeth. "Either read the bloody thing or throw it into the fire!"
"I don't _feel_ like reading it," said Jeremy.
"Then I'll read it!" she said, snatching it from him. She bent over and began reading aloud by firelight:
_"Dear (that's a joke) Jeremy:_
_"After I stopped shaking and walked out on you and got back to the Keys, Bud wanted to head North after you with his AK. But Steve said what the fuck, Bud tested clean -- no point throwing away his life along with yours and mine. And Steve's. He's real sick. ARC pneumonia. He calls it ARC-light bombing when he's got enough breath to talk. I've moved in with the two of them to try to help out. Money goes farther that way, and I like to think I'm useful. It's hard to watch him come apart and know this is how I'm going to end up._
_"Then I think it's how you're going to end up too, and it's not so bad. For once, you're not going to be able to weasel your way out of something. Only you call it negotiating, don't you? It's part of that important stuff, like attention to detail and execution, that makes you such a big success on the Street. Wall, that is, not 42nd, where they sell themselves another way. Not much difference, is there, when you come right down to it? Talk about 'execution' -- you've sure executed the two of us like a pro._
_"'We can fight this,' you said. Maybe_ you _can turn what's left of your life into a holy crusade against this thing you gave me. Me, I just want to live what years I've got left. In a way, I envy Steve. He's out of it_ now, _and he's got Bud with him. I don't know what Bud'll do after he goes. Write, maybe. I'm using his computer. Don't mind the spelling mistakes. Bud's trying to get some rest, and if he knew I was writing to you, he'd probably pitch a fit._
_"'Why in hell are you bothering? he'd ask. For one thing, I want you to_ know _what you've done._
_"And I wanted to return these cufflinks to you. Bud was all for pawning them, sending you the ticket, and throwing one hell of a party, but that was always your job, wasn't it? With your Platinum Card, easy come, easy go, right? I don't want to drink your booze, and I don't want my friends to, either. And I don't want to keep these things around. I saw the catalog you ordered them from. 18 karat gold. I know what you paid. You must have been out of your mind._
_"You want to look right, you said. You belong here. You belong with me. Dammit, if I belonged with you, why didn't you ever bring me home? I saw that picture of your folks you hide in your desk. They look nice. Your father -- he's a big guy, maybe big enough to take in another son. Maybe he even valued the one he had -- you, never mind the clone you stitched up out of bits of grad school, F. Scott FitzGerald, and_ The New Yorker, _or whatever the hell. Instead, Tiffany cufflinks. And the bloody Hamptons and why don't I move up to the City from the Keys, full-time, and take the goddamned Series 7 and you'd help me find a job. Then I could dress up and go to banquets for Greg Louganis or something with you and get my name on program committees. And if you died first, then I'd be the right kind of person to be written up as 'companion of' in_ The New York Times _obituary section with all the other guys who are dying too damn young._
_"No, thanks._
_"You said I was the best thing that ever happened to you. But that wasn't good enough. You had to play around and go test positive for HIV and give that to me, too._
_"Careless, that's what you are. Stupidly, killingly careless. Like the rules don't apply to you. I saw how your friends act when you're not looking or maybe you don't care. They stiff waiters. They cut lines. They shout at people on the phones, people who can't shout back because they need their jobs. You probably even barged into the doctor's for your blood test ahead of six other people who had to wait even longer because_ you _were there and_ you _were important._
_"Well, it's going to get you too, Jeremy Harris, just like it's getting the guy with TB on the street corner, wishing to hell he was dying down here where it's warm._
_"Besides, I want to return the cufflinks because I don't want to get to the point where I have to pawn them and use the money. I wasn't smart, like you, at making money. Never had all that much. With luck, when I go, I'll go quick. If not, I plan to be somewhere warm, somewhere maybe people will take care of me. That's why I left New York. When Steve's gone, I'll probably head even farther south._
_"If I had folks I was alive to, I'd go home to them, maybe, not hide their picture._
_"It doesn't matter a whole hell of a lot. State of mind is important, though; that's what Steve's doctors said when they sent him home. We're not hoping for a miracle cure. He hasn't got a whole lot of time left, and no one knows that better than he does. But he's happier with his partner around and his garden and his boat in sight -- we hauled it out in front of his window. He can hear the ocean, and sometimes, when he's able to eat, one of us goes and catches him a fish._
_"So here's the cufflinks. Keep 'em, throw 'em away, or pay Tiffany's to change the monogram for the next sucker. No use wasting good stuff._
_"Steve just woke up. Got to go in a minute. Bud yelled in from his room, 'If you're writing to Jeremy, tell the sonofabitch to get a life.'_
_"You had one. You threw it away. It couldn't happen to you: you were important. You were privileged. Well, it did, and now you've thrown away_ my _life too. Get a life, for as long as you can. That's what I plan to do. So I'm going to live as much as I can. First, I'm taking care of Steve. Did you ever help anyone up close? I'm not talking about writing checks and handing out cufflinks. It's kind of a mess, only helping someone who's that sick makes you feel...it's like you respect yourself. You know, I didn't for awhile there. You were paying the bills. I had to go along, I thought. But I hated it._
_"Don't try to get in touch. This isn't something you can negotiate until you talk me around. I know you're better at it than I am. Thing is, as long as I don't see you, I can remember the good things. But if I see you, I know I'll get mad all over again. And scared, just like when I first heard, and I prayed for a heart attack right then and there so I wouldn't have to go through what I know lies up ahead._
_"Don't look for me. Don't even think about me. You know the old line, 'I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you'? Right now, I think that if I saw you, I'd kill you or die trying. And there'd go the few years I've got left. I'm not willing to throw them away too._
_"Get a life, Jeremy. If you know how._
_"Raymond"_
Elizabeth stopped, her eyes glittering in the firelight. She was silent for a long time. Then she looked up. "I don't know what to say..."
"Maybe now you understand why I didn't want to know what was in it," he said bitterly.
"It's a terrible burden to carry," she acknowledged. "But you're not the only one this has happened to."
"That's a damned arrogant thing to say. At least you were able to come back here..."
She moved abruptly, then stopped. It was as if she wanted to take his letter -- and his idiotic defensive statement -- and toss the whole lot into the fire. "I didn't mean to come back alone. I wasn't alone in Paris. Ever. I could have had anyone. Bankers, oil men, Frenchmen whose blood was so blue it was a wonder they could still breathe." She sighed. "What I chose was Paul. That was his Western name, the one he used in medical school. He was an Ibo."
Jeremy shut his eyes as he considered this revelation. Achole and Ibo. Elizabeth would have had about as much in common with Paul as if she'd been a nice Jewish girl who fell in love with Moammar Quadafi.
"Sorry," he muttered. At this rate, he'd have to make a tape or something: "Jeremy Harris -- His Greatest Apologies!" and play it as needed.
A hippo grunted, much closer than before, and Jeremy peered into the dark, trying to spot it with no success. They weren't carnivores, but they killed a lot of people who got in their way at nights.
Elizabeth spat on the ground, all the chic, all the European gone from her for a moment. "We had such plans. He was going to establish the best medical clinic in Africa, and I would be a high-profile spokeswoman or fund-raiser, probably both. We were going to be a bridge between the nations, Paul and I -- and since he was the man, and that counts for more than you can imagine on this continent, we set up shop in his country." She sighed, and her shoulders looked bony, not elegant, not any more. "I tried. I did my best. I stuck it out long enough to be called a useless Achole bitch."
"By him?"
"By everyone. Including him."
Jeremy wanted to reach for the letter, but managed to control himself. "Then what?"
"I applied to medical school myself. My O-levels were good. I'd taken a First in university. Given Harvard's admission policies, I knew I could get in as a special student, then move on to med school. When I was done, I took my money and built the relief camp, and cajoled a few doctors into coming back to Uganda, and sold space to a few people like you, who were willing to pay to work here for whatever their personal reasons." She paused. "It was important to me when the camp became a reality. I collected all my clippings and sent them to Paul."
"Where is he now?"
"Nigeria. Or maybe hell, for all I know. There's not much difference between the two. I read last month that there's yet another revolution there; maybe they'll shoot him this time." Again she poked at the fire.
Jeremy watched her face in the flickering firelight. All I ever saw before tonight was the model's looks and the cool, competent exterior, he mused. I guess we're all of us trapped inside our bodies. Even someone as beautiful and accomplished as Elizabeth.
"Nigeria will do just fine without him," she concluded after a long silence. "It doesn't need a savior." She stared into the fire again. "I just wish I knew why Uganda is cursed."