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- Нил Гейман
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- Американские боги
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- Стр. 349/641
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When
she
woke
that
terrible
night
almost
twenty
years
earlier
,
and
felt
the
cold
steel
between
her
ribs
,
that
was
when
Mama
Zouzou
’
s
life
had
ended
.
Now
she
was
someone
who
did
not
live
,
who
simply
hated
.
If
you
asked
her
about
the
hate
she
would
have
been
unable
to
tell
you
about
a
twelve
-
year
-
old
girl
on
a
stinking
ship
:
that
had
scabbed
over
in
her
mind
—
there
had
been
too
many
whippings
and
beatings
,
too
many
nights
in
manacles
,
too
many
partings
,
too
much
pain
.
She
could
have
told
you
about
her
son
,
though
,
and
how
his
thumb
had
been
cut
off
when
their
master
discovered
the
boy
was
able
to
read
and
to
write
.
She
could
have
told
you
of
her
daughter
,
twelve
years
old
and
already
eight
months
pregnant
by
an
overseer
,
and
how
they
dug
a
hole
in
the
red
earth
to
take
her
daughter
’
s
pregnant
belly
,
and
then
they
whipped
her
until
her
back
had
bled
.
Despite
the
carefully
dug
hole
,
her
daughter
had
lost
her
baby
and
her
life
on
a
Sunday
morning
,
when
all
the
white
folks
were
in
church
…
Too
much
pain
.
"
Worship
them
,
"
Mama
Zouzou
told
the
young
Widow
Paris
in
the
bayou
,
one
hour
after
midnight
.
They
were
both
naked
to
the
waist
,
sweating
in
the
humid
night
,
their
skins
given
accents
by
the
white
moonlight
.
The
Widow
Paris
’
s
husband
Jacques
(
whose
own
death
,
three
years
later
,
would
have
several
remarkable
features
)
had
told
Marie
a
little
about
the
gods
of
St
.
Domingo
,
but
she
did
not
care
.
Power
came
from
the
rituals
,
not
from
the
gods
.
Together
Mama
Zouzou
and
the
Widow
Paris
crooned
and
stamped
and
keened
in
the
swamp
.
They
were
singing
in
the
blacksnakes
,
the
free
woman
of
color
and
the
slave
woman
with
the
withered
arm
.
"
There
is
more
to
it
than
just
,
you
prosper
,
your
enemies
fail
,
"
said
Mama
Zouzou
.
Many
of
the
words
of
the
ceremonies
,
words
she
knew
once
,
words
her
brother
had
also
known
,
these
words
had
fled
from
her
memory
.
She
told
pretty
Marie
Laveau
that
the
words
did
not
matter
,
only
the
tunes
and
the
beats
,
and
there
,
singing
and
tapping
in
the
blacksnakes
,
in
the
swamp
,
she
has
an
odd
vision
.
She
sees
the
beats
of
the
songs
,
the
Calinda
beat
,
the
Bamboula
beat
,
all
the
rhythms
of
equatorial
Africa
spreading
slowly
across
this
midnight
land
until
the
whole
country
shivers
and
swings
to
the
beats
of
the
old
gods
whose
realms
she
had
left
.
And
even
that
,
she
understands
somehow
,
in
the
swamp
,
even
that
will
not
be
enough
She
turns
to
pretty
Marie
and
sees
herself
through
Marie
’
s
eyes
,
a
black
-
skinned
old
woman
,
her
face
lined
,
her
bony
arm
hanging
limply
by
her
side
,
her
eyes
the
eyes
of
one
who
has
seen
her
children
fight
in
the
trough
for
food
from
the
dogs
.
She
saw
herself
,
and
she
knew
then
for
the
first
time
the
revulsion
and
the
fear
the
younger
woman
had
for
her
.
Then
she
laughed
,
and
crouched
,
and
picked
up
in
her
good
hand
a
blacksnake
as
tall
as
a
sapling
and
as
thick
as
a
ship
’
s
rope
.
