Шоколад / Chocolat - стр. 43
“Is she all right?”
He looked at me.
“Course she is.” His voice was sharp. “Why shouldn’t she be? If Her Bloody Ladyship could just get up off her fat arse once in a while we might even be able to keep this business afloat.” He dug his dishcloth-wrapped fist into the glass, grunting with the effort. “I mean.” He made an expressive gesture, “I mean, just look at this place.” He glanced at me as if about to say something else, then his gaze slid past me to the door. “He!” I gathered he was addressing someone just out of my field of vision. “Don’t you people listen? I’m closed!”
I heard a man’s voice say something indistinct in reply. Muscat gave his wide, cheerless grin.
“Can’t you idiots read?” Behind the bar he indicated the yellow twin of the card I had seen at the door. “Get lost, go on!”
I stood up to see what was happening. There were five people standing uncertainly at the cafe entrance, two men and three women. All five were strangers to me, unremarkable but for their air of indefinable otherness; the patched trousers, the workboots, the faded T-shirts which proclaimed them outsiders. I should know that look. I had it once. The man who had spoken had red hair and a green bandanna to keep it out of his face. His eyes were cautious, his tone carefully neutral.
“We’re not selling anything,” he explained. “We just want to get a couple of beers and some coffee. We’re not going to be any trouble.”
Muscat looked at him in contempt.
“I said, we’re closed.”
One of the women, a drab, thin girl with a pierced eyebrow, tugged at the redhead’s sleeve.
“It’s no good, Roux. We better – ”
“Wait a minute.” Roux shook her off impatiently. “I don’t understand. The lady who was here a moment ago your wife she was going to-”
“Screw my wife!” exclaimed Muscat shrilly. “My wife couldn’t find her arse with both hands and a pocket torch! It’s my name above the door, and I – say – we’re – closed!”
He had taken three steps from behind the bar, and now he stood barring the doorway, hands on hips, like an overweight gunslinger in a spaghetti western. I could see the yellowy gleam of his knuckles at his belt, hear the whistle of his breath. His face was congested with rage.
“Right.” Roux’s face was expressionless. He flicked a hostile, deliberate glance at the few customers scattered about the room. “Closed.”
Another glance around the room. For a moment our eyes met.
“Closed to us,” he said quietly.
“Not as stupid as you look, are you?” said Muscat with sour glee. “We had enough of your lot last time. This time, we’re not standing for it!”
“OK.”
Roux turned to go. Muscat saw him off, strutting stiff-legged, like a dog scenting a fight. I walked past him without a word, leaving my coffee half-finished on the table. I hope he wasn’t expecting a tip.
I caught up with the river-gypsies halfway down the Avenue des Francs Bourgeois: It had begun to drizzle again, and the five of them looked drab and sullen. I could see their boats now, down in Les Marauds, a dozen of them – two dozen – a flotilla of green-yellow-blue-white-red, some flying flags of damp washing, others painted with Arabian nights and magic carpets and unicorn variations reflected in the dull green water.
“I’m sorry that happened,” I told them. “They’re not an especially welcoming lot in Lansquenet-sous-Tannes.”