"Dan Simmons - Vanni Fucci is Well and Living in Hell" - читать интересную книгу автора (Simmons Dan)

Brother Freddy glanced down at his notes and then looked helplessly at the floor
director. Brother Billy Bob shrugged with a depth of confusion that Brother Freddy
felt but could not show while the red eye of the camera glowed.
The Hallelujah Breakfast Club prided itself on being live in three time zones. Brother
Freddy smiled at the ad-vancing intruder and wished they had gone with the
tape-delayed programs his competitors preferred. Brother Freddy usually prided
himself on the fact that he wore no earphone to hear the booth director's instructions
and com-ments, trusting instead on Brother Billy Bob's hand signals and his own
well-honed sense of media timing. Now, as Brother Freddy rose to his feet to shake
hands with the swarthy stranger, he wished that he had an earphone to learn what
was going on. He wished that they had a com-mercial to cut to. He wished that
somebody would tell him what was happening.
"Good morning," Brother Freddy said affably, retriev-ing his hand from the
foreigner's firm grip. "Welcome to the Hallelujah Breakfast Club." He glanced
toward Brother Billy Bob, who was muttering urgently into his bead microphone.
Camera Three dollied in for a close-up of the swarthy stranger. Camera Two
remained fixed on the long divan crowded with the Miracle Triplets, Bubba Deeters,
and Frank Flinsey grinning mechanically from be-neath his military-trimmed
mustache. The floor monitors showed the medium close-up of Brother Freddy's
florid, politely smiling, and only slightly perspiring face.
"Thank you, I've been looking forward to this for some time," said the stranger as he
sat in the velour guest chair next to Brother Freddy's desk. There was a hint of
Italian accent in the man's deep voice even though the En-glish was precisely
correct.
Brother Freddy sat, smile still fixed, and glanced to-ward Billy Bob. The floor
director shrugged and made the hand signal for "carry on."
"I'm sorry," said Brother Freddy, "I guess I've mixed up the introductions. I also
guess you're not my dear friend, Dale Evans." Brother Freddy paused and looked
into the stranger's brown eyes, surprised at the anger and intensity he saw there,
praying that this was only a sched-uling mix-up and not some political terrorist or
Pentecostal crazy who had gotten past Security. Brother Freddy was acutely aware
that the signal was being telecast live to more than three million homes.
"No, I am not Dale Evans," agreed the stranger. "My name is Vanni Fucci." Again
the hint of an Italian accent. Brother Freddy noted that the name had been
pronounced VAH-nee FOO-tchee. Brother Freddy had nothing against Italians;
growing up in Greenville, Alabama, he had known very few of them. As an adult he
had learned not to call them wops. He presumed most Italians were Cath-olic,
therefore not Christians, and therefore of little interest to him or his ministry. But
now this particular Italian was a bit of a problem.
"Mr. Fucci," smiled Brother Freddy, "why don't you tell our viewers where you're
from?"
Vanni Fucci turned his intense gaze toward the camera. "I was born in Pistoia," he
said, "but for the last seven hundred years I have lived in Hell."
Brother Freddy's smile froze but did not falter. He glanced left at Billy Bob. The
floor director was frantically making the signal of a star over his left breast. At first
Brother Freddy thought it was some obscure religious symbol but then he realized
that the man meant that Secu-rity ... or the real police ... had been called. Behind the
wall of lights and cameras a live studio audience of almost three hundred people had
ceased their usual background murmur of whispers and shiftings and stifled sneezes.
The auditorium was dead silent.