• Пожаловаться

Alan Furst: Red Gold

Здесь есть возможность читать онлайн «Alan Furst: Red Gold» весь текст электронной книги совершенно бесплатно (целиком полную версию). В некоторых случаях присутствует краткое содержание. категория: Шпионский детектив / на английском языке. Описание произведения, (предисловие) а так же отзывы посетителей доступны на портале. Библиотека «Либ Кат» — LibCat.ru создана для любителей полистать хорошую книжку и предлагает широкий выбор жанров:

любовные романы фантастика и фэнтези приключения детективы и триллеры эротика документальные научные юмористические анекдоты о бизнесе проза детские сказки о религиии новинки православные старинные про компьютеры программирование на английском домоводство поэзия

Выбрав категорию по душе Вы сможете найти действительно стоящие книги и насладиться погружением в мир воображения, прочувствовать переживания героев или узнать для себя что-то новое, совершить внутреннее открытие. Подробная информация для ознакомления по текущему запросу представлена ниже:

Alan Furst Red Gold

Red Gold: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

Предлагаем к чтению аннотацию, описание, краткое содержание или предисловие (зависит от того, что написал сам автор книги «Red Gold»). Если вы не нашли необходимую информацию о книге — напишите в комментариях, мы постараемся отыскать её.

Alan Furst: другие книги автора


Кто написал Red Gold? Узнайте фамилию, как зовут автора книги и список всех его произведений по сериям.

Red Gold — читать онлайн бесплатно полную книгу (весь текст) целиком

Ниже представлен текст книги, разбитый по страницам. Система сохранения места последней прочитанной страницы, позволяет с удобством читать онлайн бесплатно книгу «Red Gold», без необходимости каждый раз заново искать на чём Вы остановились. Поставьте закладку, и сможете в любой момент перейти на страницу, на которой закончили чтение.

Шрифт:

Сбросить

Интервал:

Закладка:

Сделать

“Really?”

“Oh yes, a lot longer.”

Bruc took a sip of wine and a long drag on his Gauloise. A man had jumped up on a table and started to sing, people were clapping to keep time.

“Why does it take longer?” Casson said.

“Well, the cesspools are the same size, but the stuff in the office buildings is harder, really hell to pump out.”

Casson stared. A peculiarity of office life?

The owner worked his way through the crowd, a full chopine in his hand. He poured the last of the old flask into the two glasses. “You’ll take a little more?” he asked Casson.

“Yes,” Casson said. “Certainly we will.”

“Generous of you,” Bruc said.

“Monsieur Bruc,” Casson said. “How is it different?”

“The water, monsieur. In the apartment buildings they are forever cooking and cleaning and washing the laundry.”

Casson wandered out the back door to a courtyard, unbuttoned his fly, and stood over an open drain. Drinking all day, he thought. Well, so what? Above him, a fine starry night; with the city under a blackout the sky had returned. Autumn heaven-les Poissons up there somewhere, his birth sign. Somebody had once tried to show it to him, but all he could see were drifts of stars.

It was late. Up in Passy, his former life went on. Marie-Claire and Bruno, the Arnauds and the Pichards, would be chattering over after-dinner drinks. Good talk, witty and dry-life was irony. No doubt they would be talking about the affreux-dreadful-Germans. Not so affreux, of course, that one refused to get rich off them. Maybe they talked about the war, maybe not. Like any other inconvenience, it would go away when it was ready. In the meantime, x was broke, y was sleeping with z. Then, a glance at a watch, kisses all around, and home they’d go. Home, where they hung their clothes on quilted hangers in closets with mirrored doors. Home, to bed.

Casson fumbled at his fly, getting the buttons done. Jean-Claude, you are drunk. Well, yes, I am, it’s true. But I have a theory about that, if you’d like to hear it. I believe it may result from drinking a lot of wine. As observed by Doctor Vinkelmeister in his paper read before the Academie Nationale. Casson laughed out loud. Doctor Vinkelmeister.

Back in the Diable Vert it got louder and louder. Monsieur Bruc had wandered off somewhere. The man who had jumped on a table to sing a song was now crawling around on hands and knees and barking like a dog. People shouted at him, “Down, Fideaux! Roll over! Shake hands!”

Two men wearing sharp suits came to Casson’s table. Brothers, he thought. They had the same face. Thick shoulders, heavy throats, chins dark only hours after shaving. Casson could smell the hair oil. Pimps. From the south, he thought, the Midi. Come up to Paris to make their fortunes. “Won’t you offer us a drink?” This one was fatter than the other and wore an expensive black shirt.

Of course. With pleasure.

They were sniffing at him. And the drink wasn’t optional. The fat one took the flask and filled both their glasses to the rim. “See?” he said to his brother. “I told you he was a good guy.”

He was glad when they left. The dance-hall girls came back. The dark one with curly hair dropped into the empty chair and said, “What a crowd!”

“Et alors,” her friend said, hands on hips, playfully indignant. “Kind of you to take the chair.”

“Don’t mention it. I could tell you wanted me to have it.”

“Well.” She looked around, then shrugged and settled herself delicately on Casson’s lap. “With your permission, monsieur.”

“More than welcome.”

“There, you see?” she said to her friend. “Some people still know how to be polite.” Then, formally, to Casson: “How are you called, monsieur?”

“Marin,” He said. “Jean Marin.”

“I am-Julie.”

As with all English names taken into French, it sounded exotic, the j soft, the accent rolling to the second syllable: Ju-lee. She caressed the name as she said it, clearly relishing the identity it suggested. Who are you really, he thought. Juliette, at best. More likely: Hortense. From some wretched little village somewhere. Ran off to Paris, leaving Albert the butcher’s son heartbroken.

He could see why. She was one of those lethal girls, with the small face and the big ass, white skin, angelic pout. The hair pinned up under her cap was a strange shade of red, God only knew what had been done to it in various hotel sinks. She wriggled around to get comfortable, then settled in-a warm vee against his thigh- gave him a playful nip on the earlobe and made a brat face. Bit you!

The friend looked grim and shook her head in mock despair-oh that Julie. She rooted around in her purse, found a small mirror, and went to work repairing the kiss curl on her forehead, wetting her index finger on her tongue and poking at the hair until it was plastered against her skin. For no particular reason that Casson could see, this operation was accompanied by a fierce scowl.

Julie hummed to herself, took Casson’s glass and finished his wine. He pulled her against him and gave her a kiss. “Mm,” she said, against his mouth. He could smell her lipstick, waxy and sweet. Big, heavy kisses, she moved her head from side to side, arms tight around his neck. He was fifteen again. She drew back and said “Tiens,” hanging on to her cap so it wouldn’t blow away in the big storm they were brewing up.

Casson laughed, then fished a handful of francs from his shirt pocket. “Another chopine, I think.”

“Let me,” she said, taking the money from his hand. He watched her as she moved through the crowd, richly curved in her thin wool trousers.

The din grew, and grew again-in the Diable Vert it was time to sing. A group in one corner began the Marseillaise, a crowd of men across the room tried the one about the Breton housewife, her underdrawers eaten by a bull. The man who was a dog stuck his head out from beneath a table and bit somebody on the ankle. A tray of glasses smashed, a woman shrieked with laughter, a man shouted at a friend that only he could see.

In the middle of it, Casson brooded. Where, where? He’d seen a tiny storeroom off the corridor that led to the courtyard, that was one possibility. Ju-lee, bent over a plank table, pants around her ankles. Primitive, but not such a bad idea. Or, maybe, actually on the table. No, that was to invite comedy. In his room? Easily the best solution, but La Patronne would be guarding the hotel door. So, was there another way? Yes. Pay. This was double occupancy, not the end of the world. Ah, he thought, the old Casson, the 16th Arrondissement Casson.

What if she asked for money? No, it wasn’t like that. Or, at least, not quite like that. She returned with the wine, sat down again on his lap, and ruffled his hair. At some point she had put on more perfume. Casson refilled their glasses, Julie raised hers in a toast. “Mud in their eyes,” she said in English.

Like a rocket on Bastille Day, the Friday-night mood. It climbed to the top of the sky, slowed, froze a long instant at the apogee, then burst, a thousand stars floating back to earth. For a time, the crowd in the Diable Vert felt good. Oh, maybe the last few years hadn’t gone so well but it wasn’t really their fault. Now everything was going to be different, they could see it, around the next bend in life. Justice at last, their rightful place, finally some money. Then the moment passed. They remembered who they were and they knew what was going to happen to them-the same things that happened to everybody they’d ever known. So, fuck this life they handed me. A little more wine, anyhow, you couldn’t go too far wrong with that.

Читать дальше

Шрифт:

Сбросить

Интервал:

Закладка:

Сделать

Похожие книги на «Red Gold»

Представляем Вашему вниманию похожие книги на «Red Gold» списком для выбора. Мы отобрали схожую по названию и смыслу литературу в надежде предоставить читателям больше вариантов отыскать новые, интересные, ещё не прочитанные произведения.


Отзывы о книге «Red Gold»

Обсуждение, отзывы о книге «Red Gold» и просто собственные мнения читателей. Оставьте ваши комментарии, напишите, что Вы думаете о произведении, его смысле или главных героях. Укажите что конкретно понравилось, а что нет, и почему Вы так считаете.