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- Авторы
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- Нил Гейман
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- Американские боги
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- Стр. 637/641
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Postscript
Reykjavík
in
Iceland
is
a
strange
city
,
even
for
those
who
have
seen
many
strange
cities
.
It
is
a
volcanic
city
—
the
heat
for
the
city
comes
from
deep
underground
.
There
are
tourists
,
but
not
as
many
of
them
as
you
might
expect
,
not
even
in
early
July
.
The
sun
was
shining
,
as
it
had
shone
for
weeks
now
:
it
ceased
shining
for
an
hour
or
so
in
the
small
hours
.
There
would
be
a
dusky
dawn
of
sorts
between
two
and
three
in
the
morning
,
and
then
the
day
would
begin
once
more
.
The
big
tourist
had
walked
most
of
Reykjavík
that
morning
,
listening
to
people
talk
in
a
language
that
had
changed
little
in
a
thousand
years
.
The
natives
here
could
read
the
ancient
sagas
as
easily
as
they
could
read
a
newspaper
.
There
was
a
sense
of
continuity
on
this
island
that
scared
him
,
and
that
he
found
desperately
reassuring
.
He
was
very
tired
:
the
unending
daylight
had
made
sleep
almost
impossible
,
and
he
had
sat
in
his
hotel
room
through
the
whole
long
nightless
night
alternately
reading
a
guidebook
and
Bleak
House
,
a
novel
he
had
bought
in
an
airport
in
the
last
few
weeks
,
but
which
airport
he
could
no
longer
remember
.
Sometimes
,
he
had
stared
out
of
the
window
.
Finally
the
clock
as
well
as
the
sun
proclaimed
it
morning
.
He
bought
a
bar
of
chocolate
at
one
of
the
many
candy
stores
,
walked
the
sidewalk
,
occasionally
finding
himself
reminded
of
the
volcanic
nature
of
Iceland
:
he
would
turn
a
corner
and
notice
,
for
a
moment
,
a
sulphurous
quality
to
the
air
.
It
put
him
in
mind
not
of
Hades
but
of
rotten
eggs
.
Many
of
the
women
he
passed
were
very
beautiful
:
slender
and
pale
.
The
kind
of
women
that
Wednesday
had
liked
.
Shadow
wondered
what
could
have
attracted
Wednesday
to
Shadow
’
s
mother
,
who
had
been
beautiful
but
had
been
neither
of
those
things
.
Shadow
smiled
at
the
pretty
women
,
because
they
made
him
feel
pleasantly
male
,
and
he
smiled
at
the
other
women
too
,
because
he
was
having
a
good
time
.
He
was
not
sure
when
he
became
aware
that
he
was
being
observed
.
Somewhere
on
his
walk
through
Reykjavík
he
became
certain
that
someone
was
watching
him
.
He
would
turn
,
from
time
to
time
,
trying
to
get
a
glimpse
of
who
it
was
,
and
he
would
stare
into
store
windows
and
out
at
the
reflected
street
behind
him
,
but
he
saw
no
one
out
of
the
ordinary
,
no
one
who
seemed
to
be
observing
him
.
