We Leave Together, стр. 28

CHAPTER 8

The first real, hard rain of the turning seasons came. The clouds blew in from the ocean when the city slept, and by morning, the oppressive weight of the air gave warning of what was to come. By mid-morning, the air was so fat with water, it could no longer hold. The rain fell. This was a rain to melt old roof tiles and flood new sewers and old sewers alike and to wash all the city raw. There were no people anymore, just parasols and high boots and cloaks. Everyone that could found shelter from the storms. In the Pens district, in every house and working building, empty pots filled up with water to be dumped out windows. In the empty rooms, water filled up the floors to rot them out. It was the season when squatters were tolerated who would be willing to handle the flood. It was the season when every doorway became shelter from the storms for dogs and people who might as well have been dogs.

Mishle Leva’s final canal wasn’t finished. Water would have to erode the final stretch with mud spilling over the malformed shoreline, cutting its own pools and runnels down the seven or eight blocks to the edge of the docks. A pinker talked about how nothing ever worked right down here, and about how the people had all melted away, and that’s why no workers were left to finish the canal.

This pinker, I’ll call him by his true name for there was someone observing him. Djoss was his name and his listener didn’t know it—leaned over to the fellow next to him in the bar and explained these mysteries. Salvatore heard Djoss’ story. Salvatore leaned over to the woman he was with, Mishaela—her of the luxurious red hair and the lonely heart.

She, Mishaela, leaned over to Djoss. “Tell me, fellow,” she said, “How long have you been sucking on the hookahs?”

Djoss mumbled something about a red parasol, staring at his own hands.

Mishaela touched Djoss’ arm. “You want some money?” she said, “You can head down a bit if you get some of that. You bring me some jewelry and I’ll give you some coin for it. Go get me some jewelry and I’ll buy it off of you.”

Djoss pushed her hand off. He stood up. He turned from the bar. He walked into the rain, no parasol and no hat and no cloak to keep the hard rain from falling on his skin like warm needles.

Salvatore kissed Mishaela’s neck. “That got him moving. You up for a kick?”

Mishaela took Salvatore’s hand. “Poor fellow can’t tell a lady from a parasol.”

“Maybe he did,” said Salvatore. He pulled Mishaela up to her feet. “You need any redroots? They got ’em here.”

“I can sleep all day if I want as long as dinner’s on time. I told you that.”

“Oh, sorry.”

“He’s nothing but trouble, but I’m bored. Think he might be carrying anything?”

“Probably not.”

“I’m bored, Salvatore. I’ve lived here my whole life and I don’t care about the rains.”

The storm embraced Salvatore and Mishaela harder than they embraced each other. It shattered on Salvatore’s big, black hat. It slid over the lip of Mishaela’s parasol like a walking waterfall.

***

Djoss stumbled down the street under the full weight of the rain, unaware of his audience. The lighters didn’t walk around in this. The streetlights lasted as long as the kerosene inside of them. In and out of the flickering light, Mishaela couldn’t follow Djoss with her eyes. Salvatore, with his ancient eyes, could.

Salvatore followed Djoss. Djoss’ cheap, dirty linen shirt clung to his skin like water-proof mud.

Salvatore pointed at Djoss’ back down the street.

A strong gust blew rain up into Salvatore’s face. His hat blew back. Mishaela angled her parasol to protect Salvatore’s face. Their capes caught the wind but didn’t fly out far with the sheets of rain falling hard.

Djoss stopped to gawk at every shop window, and all of them were closed.

Dogs stumbled in and out of the alleys, watching the scrap trash rinsed away into the rivers that flowed to the sewers, and all the smells of the city merged into one mud smell and all the boots of the people—where dogs saw them—were caked in mud and all the dogs were caked in mud, too. All the daylight rivalries found a truce in the rising mud. Dogs huddled together to stay warm in the covered places out of the blustering rain beside cats and rats and large birds.

When Djoss staggered like he was going to fall, Salvatore held his breath. “He could drown on his back with his mouth open like he is. We’re counting on our fellow to lead us to coin, not drown.”

Djoss turned down an alley that still had plenty of streetlight. A red line of paint—gambling—hid in a corner between a boarded up basement and a large fence. On the other side of the fence, boar pigs tried their best to sleep. The muted grunting snores from the animals were not as powerful as the smell.

Salvatore gestured with his neck. Mishaela didn’t see it. Salvatore pointed at the door. “Red door. Card game,” he said.

Mishaela nodded. She squinted into the rain. She saw nothing but rain.

Djoss pounded on the door. It opened into blinding light. A black shadow filled the entryway with a club over one shoulder.

“You up, wet bear? This is a five table. Five gets you in the door.” The man chortled after he spoke. Djoss looked like exactly what he was: a pinker desperate for more coins to fall into the hookahs.

Djoss tried to push into the room.

The man pushed Djoss back with his free hand, and adjusted the club on his shoulder.

“I need to know you can stand the table. Got any coins?”

Djoss scowled. One leg dropped back and