"Kim Stanley Robinson - Venice Drowned (2)" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robinson Kim Stanley)

was a small swell from the north. Carlo rowed out a way and then stepped forward to raise the
boat's single sail. The wind was from the


east, so they would make good time north to Torcello. Behind them, Venice looked beautiful in the
morning light, as if they were miles away, and a watery horizon blocked their full view of it.
The two Japanese had stopped talking and were looking over the side. They were over the
cemetery of San Michele, Carlo realized. Below them lay the island that had been the city's chief
cemetery for centuries; they sailed over a field of tombs, mausoleums, gravestones, obelisks, that
at low tide could be a navigational hazard .... Just enough of the bizarre white blocks could be
seen to convince one that they were indeed the result of the architectural thinking of fishes.
Carlo crossed himself quickly to impress his customers, and sat back down at the tiller. He pulled
the sail tight and they heeled over slightly, slapped into the waves.
In no more than twenty minutes they were east of Murano, skirting its edge. Murano, like
Venice an island city crossed with canals, had been a quaint little town before the flood. But it
didn't have as many tall buildings as Venice, and it was said that an underwater river had
undercut its islands; in any case, it was a wreck. The two Japanese chattered with excitement.
"Can we visit to that city here, Carlo?" asked Hamada.
"It's too dangerous," Carlo answered. "Buildings have fallen into the canals."
They nodded, smiling. "Are people live here?" Taku asked.
"A few, yes. They live in the highest buildings on the floors still above water, and work
in Venice. That way they avoid having to build a roof-house in the city."
The faces of his two companions expressed incomprehension.
"They avoid the housing shortage in Venice," Carlo said. "There's a certain housing
shortage in Venice, as you may have noticed." His listeners caught the joke this time and laughed
uproariously.
"Could live on floors below if owning scuba such as that

here," Hamada said, gesturing at Carlo's equipment.
"Yes," he replied. "Or we could grow gills." He bugged his eyes out and waved his fingers
at his neck to indicate gills. The Japanese loved it.
Past Murano, the Lagoon was clear for a few miles, a sunbeaten blue covered with choppy
waves. The boat tipped up and down, the wind tugged at the sail cord in Carlo's hand. He began to
enjoy himself. "Storm coming," he volunteered to the others and pointed at the black line over the
horizon to the north. It was a common sight; short, violent storms swept over Brenner Pass from
the Austrian Alps, dumping on the Po Valley and the Lagoon before dissipating in the Adriatic . .
. once a week, or more, even in the summer. That was one reason the fish market was held under the
domes of San Marco; everyone had gotten sick of trading in the rain.
Even the Japanese recognized the clouds. "Many rain fall soon here," Taku said.
Hamada grinned and said, "Taku and Tafui, weather prophets no doubt, make big company!"
They laughed. "Does he do this in Japan, too?" Carlo asked.
"Yes indeed, surely. In Japan rains every day-Taku says, `It rains tomorrow for surely.'
Weather prophet!"
After the laughter receded, Carlo said, "Hasn't all the rain drowned some of your cities
too?"
"What's that here?"
"Don't you have some Venices in Japan?"
But they didn't want to talk about that. "I don't understand .... No, no Venice in Japan,"
Hamada said easily, but neither laughed as they had, before. They sailed on. Venice was out of
sight under the horizon, as was Murano., Soon they would reach Burano. Carlo guided the boat over