Читаем The Complete Short Stories полностью

However tragic, Beirut had been worth fighting for, a city with street markets, stores and restaurants. There were churches and mosques filled with real congregations, not heaps of roof-tiles under an open sky. Now the civilian population had gone, leaving a few thousand armed combatants and their families hiding in the ruins. They were fed and supplied by the UN peacekeeping force, who turned a blind eye to the clandestine shipments of arms and ammunition, for fear of favouring one or another side in the conflict.

So a futile war dragged on, so pointless that the world’s news media had long since lost interest. Sometimes, in a ruined basement, Ryan came acoss a tattered copy of Time or Paris Match, filled with photographs of street-fighting and graphic reports on the agony of Beirut, a city then at the centre of the world’s concern. Now no one cared, and only the hereditary militias fought on, grappling across their empires of rubble.

But there was nothing pointless about the bullets. As they passed the shell of the old pro-government radio station there was a single shot from the ground-floor window.

‘Pull over, corporal! Get off the road!’ Pistol in hand, Gomez wrenched the steering wheel from Arkady and slewed the jeep into the shelter of a derelict bus.

Kneeling beside the flattened rear tyres, Ryan watched the UN spotter plane circle overhead. He waited for Gomez to flush out the sniper, probably a Nationalist fanatic trying to avenge the death of a brother or cousin. The Nationalist militia were based at Beirut Airport, a wilderness of weed-grown concrete on which no plane had landed for ten years, and rarely ventured into the centre of the city.

If a ceasefire was ever to take hold it would be here, somewhere along the old Green Line that divided Beirut, in this no-man’s-land between the main power bases — the Christians in north-east Beirut, the Nationalists and Fundamentalists in the south and west, the Royalists and Republicans in the south-east, with the International Brigade clinging to the fringes. But the real map of the city was endlessly redrawn by opportunist deals struck among the local commanders — a jeep bartered for a truckload of tomatoes, six rocket launchers for a video-recorder.

What ransom could buy a ceasefire?

‘Wake up, Ryan! Let’s move!’ Gomez emerged from the radio station with his prisoner, a jittery twelve-year-old in a hand-me-down Nationalist uniform. Gomez held the boy by his matted hair, then flung him into the back of the jeep. ‘Ryan, keep an eye on this animal — he bites. We’ll take him to interrogation.’

‘Right, captain. And if there’s anything left we’ll trade him for some new videos.’

Hands bound, the boy knelt on the floor of the jeep, weeping openly from fear and rage. Jabbing him with his rifle stock, Ryan was surprised by his own emotions. For all his hopes of a ceasefire, he felt a reflex of real hate for this overgrown child. Hate was what kept the war going. Even Dr Edwards had been infected by it, and he wasn’t alone. Ryan had seen the shining eyes of the UN observers as they photographed the latest atrocity victims, or debriefed the survivors of a cruel revenge attack, like prurient priests at confession. How could they put an end to the hate that was corrupting them all? Good God, he himself had begun to resent Angel Porrua for fighting with the Nationalists…

That evening Ryan rested on the balcony of Aunt Vera’s apartment overlooking the harbour in East Beirut. He watched the riding lights of the UN patrol craft out at sea, and thought about his plans for a ceasefire. Trying to forget the day’s fighting and Angel’s death, he listened to Louisa chattering in the kitchen over the sounds of pop music broadcast by a local radio station.

The balcony was virtually Ryan’s bedroom — he slept there in a hammock shielded from public view by the washing line and the plywood hutch he had built as a boy for his Dutch rabbit. Ryan could easily have moved to any one of the dozen empty apartments in the building, but he liked the intimacy of family life. The two rooms and kitchen were the only home he had ever known.

A young couple in an apartment across the street had recently adopted an orphan boy, and the sounds of his crying reminded Ryan that he at least was related by blood to the members of his family. In Beirut such blood ties were rare. Few of the young women soldiers ever conceived, and most children were war-orphans, though it puzzled Ryan where all these youngsters came from — somehow a secret family life survived in the basements and shantytowns on the outskirts of the city.

‘That’s the Rentons’ new little son.’ His sister strolled onto the balcony, brushing out the waist-long hair that spent its days in a military bun. ‘It’s a pity he cries a lot.’

‘At least he laughs more than he cries.’ An intriguing thought occurred to Ryan. ‘Tell me, Louisa — will Lieutenant Valentina and I have a child?’

‘A child? Did you hear that, Aunty? So what does Valentina think?’

Перейти на страницу:

Похожие книги

Любовь гика
Любовь гика

Эксцентричная, остросюжетная, странная и завораживающая история семьи «цирковых уродов». Строго 18+!Итак, знакомьтесь: семья Биневски.Родители – Ал и Лили, решившие поставить на своем потомстве фармакологический эксперимент.Их дети:Артуро – гениальный манипулятор с тюленьими ластами вместо конечностей, которого обожают и чуть ли не обожествляют его многочисленные фанаты.Электра и Ифигения – потрясающе красивые сиамские близнецы, прекрасно играющие на фортепиано.Олимпия – карлица-альбиноска, влюбленная в старшего брата (Артуро).И наконец, единственный в семье ребенок, чья странность не проявилась внешне: красивый золотоволосый Фортунато. Мальчик, за ангельской внешностью которого скрывается могущественный паранормальный дар.И этот дар может либо принести Биневски богатство и славу, либо их уничтожить…

Кэтрин Данн

Проза / Современная русская и зарубежная проза / Проза прочее
Добро не оставляйте на потом
Добро не оставляйте на потом

Матильда, матриарх семьи Кабрелли, с юности была резкой и уверенной в себе. Но она никогда не рассказывала родным об истории своей матери. На закате жизни она понимает, что время пришло и история незаурядной женщины, какой была ее мать Доменика, не должна уйти в небытие…Доменика росла в прибрежном Виареджо, маленьком провинциальном городке, с детства она выделялась среди сверстников – свободолюбием, умом и желанием вырваться из традиционной канвы, уготованной для женщины. Выучившись на медсестру, она планирует связать свою жизнь с медициной. Но и ее планы, и жизнь всей Европы разрушены подступающей войной. Судьба Доменики окажется связана с Шотландией, с морским капитаном Джоном Мак-Викарсом, но сердце ее по-прежнему принадлежит Италии и любимому Виареджо.Удивительно насыщенный роман, в основе которого лежит реальная история, рассказывающий не только о жизни итальянской семьи, но и о судьбе британских итальянцев, которые во Вторую мировую войну оказались париями, отвергнутыми новой родиной.Семейная сага, исторический роман, пейзажи тосканского побережья и прекрасные герои – новый роман Адрианы Трижиани, автора «Жены башмачника», гарантирует настоящее погружение в удивительную, очень красивую и не самую обычную историю, охватывающую почти весь двадцатый век.

Адриана Трижиани

Историческая проза / Современная русская и зарубежная проза