Читать книгу Slaves to Fortune - Tom Lanoye - Страница 13

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THE TONY IN KROKODILSPRUIT is a little younger than the Tony in San Telmo. Less broad in the shoulders and narrower at the waist. His hair is lighter and shows a greater tendency to curl, his lips are slightly fuller, and his face has a permanently injured expression, verging on the pained. But they are of similar height; their eyes are the same indeterminate brown. There are brothers who look less alike.

Perhaps there are even third and fourth namesakes of a similar age somewhere in the world. Hanssen is a common surname in their country of origin; a lot of men of their generation are called Tony. Maybe the third and the fourth share certain physical characteristics, too. But there will never be a bond between them as there is between these two. One despairs, the other takes aim and grits his teeth, and neither of them knows the other exists. Even less do they suspect their paths will cross on a different continent in just a few days’ time. The crucible of the future.

But we’re not there, yet. For the moment, African ants are making their way across Tony’s dusty safari shoes. And, for the moment, the springs in Tony’s South American mattress are squeaking as quietly and persistently as tortured rats.