The Cigarette Girl. Caroline Woods

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СКАЧАТЬ had to pass through a tunnel of exotic plants, ferns that offered caresses. The air smelled floral, fruity, sweet, strong—how awful the dormitory toilets would be after this! When Grete opened her eyes, Berni had stopped in a plant-laden cave of sorts, in front of a glass case. Behind it was a young woman in the same black-and-gold cap the doormen wore, but with silk stockings and a fitted jacket. Looking bored, she dabbed her deep-plum lips with a tissue.

      Berni had her hands on the top of the case, inside which were bottles of all shapes and sizes, some with long delicate necks, some with tasseled ionizers. Grete saw nothing miraculous. Instead of Luck Tonic or Courage Elixir, there were Spirit of Myrcia and Essence of Lilac.

      The shop girl used a nail file to nudge Berni’s hand off the case; it left a steamy print. Her hair was artificial red, too shiny to be real, and her large nose was twisted to the side in amusement. Grete realized in horror that poor Berni had been duped. This was where rich ladies bought their toilet water, nothing more. She had never experienced fremdschämen for Berni—usually it was the other way around—and she felt the world tip on its axis.

      “Berni,” she whispered. The shop girl licked her teeth, waiting. “We can leave now.”

      Berni cleared her throat. With a fingernail she tapped the glass. “Where are the potions?”

      The salesgirl took a breath and paused, then opened her mouth in a wide grin. Her teeth were yellow and crowded. “They’re all potions. Would you like to try the Oriental Lily Nectar?” When she talked, a string of saliva like spider’s silk linked her upper and lower incisors. She produced a deep-purple bottle with a cap shaped like a flower.

      “What does it do?”

      The salesgirl’s forehead wrinkled momentarily. “What does it do?” She inserted a dropper into the bottle, then squeezed it twice on Berni’s wrist. “This perfume is extracted from the blooms that grow around the Taj Mahal.” Her voice was deep, deeper than the average woman’s, and as long as Grete watched her lips move, she could hear her voice better than she could Berni’s. She put a drop on Grete’s wrist as well. “Want to know the price?”

      Grete hesitated a bit, then sniffed. Perfume, ordinary perfume. “Berni . . .”

      Berni put her nose to her wrist and inhaled. “Very nice. But no, I don’t want to know the price.” She was sixteen, too old to believe in magic. Yet she sounded so desperate that Grete longed to hide. “I want to know where the real libations are.”

      The salesgirl tilted her head, and finally Grete could see the brown eyes under her cap, alarmingly large and quick. “You’ll get the true fragrance after a little. Let the bouquet develop.”

      “Tell me where you’re hiding the real stuff.” Berni took one of her long, heavy arms and draped it around Grete’s shoulders. “What do you carry for hearing loss?”

      Grete’s face suddenly felt hot under the fluorescent lights. So this was Berni’s purpose. She should have known.

      Berni cupped her cheek and said, eyes filled with worry, “Don’t you want to be able to hear Sister Maria during the Latin oral?”

      Whenever she had a problem, Grete thought, shutting her eyes, Berni swooped in to solve it. Bullies were vanquished, spills cleaned. Even when Grete could glimpse a solution, Berni would pluck it from above her, as though snatching a feather from the sky. The one thing she’d never been able to attain for Grete was a normal ear.

      The salesgirl looked confused. Delicately she ran a hand over her red hair, petting it, as if to confirm it hadn’t gone anywhere. “Look,” she said. “I’ve humored you enough.”

      “Berni, this is stupid.” Grete yanked her sister’s hem so hard she felt a seam tear. Berni froze, looking down at her, her face wrought with failure, and for a moment Grete wished it had worked. If only she could allow Berni to cure her. She opened her mouth to say something—but what was there to say?—and then she heard high heels on marble.

      The salesgirl straightened up when a blond woman appeared. She wore a short red coat and black leather gloves. Her eyes were as dark as the gloves, saucy and round. “Darling,” the woman said, reaching for the salesgirl. They kissed on both cheeks. “How’s the new job?”

      The salesgirl’s face turned the color of her hair. “Old hat.”

      “I can wait my turn,” said the blond woman, smiling politely at Berni and Grete.

      “We’re finished,” the salesgirl snapped. “They aren’t buying anything, is that right?”

      “No,” Berni said, her voice cracking a little. “You don’t have what we came for.”

      The blond woman looked closely at Berni and Grete, taking in their shabby dresses, the worn shoes, and her face rose and fell in pity. Berni crossed her arms. Nobody but Grete saw the salesgirl produce an ivory-and-gold phone out of nowhere. She dialed one number and murmured something Grete could not hear into the receiver.

      “Berni,” she whispered, lifting her sister’s dark braid. “We have to go . . .”

      “I have a good one for you,” the blond woman said to the salesgirl, accepting an amber bottle. “Why are the Sturmabteilung uniforms brown?”

      The salesgirl hesitated. Berni answered for her. “Something to do with shit stains?”

      Grete’s mouth fell open. The woman began to laugh. Then one of the doormen came crashing through the plants, a big man, white-eyebrowed, his face florid. He lifted his chins at the salesgirl, who nodded with satisfaction toward Berni and Grete. The blond woman turned in the act of squeezing the ionizer at her throat to watch him take each girl by the arm, and Grete thought she heard her say, “Oh, for goodness’ sake!” as they were ushered away.

      Grete squeezed her eyes shut and stumbled beside him so that she wouldn’t have to watch the tranquil salespeople and shoppers being disturbed. She mumbled to herself, practicing for her Latin test. Decem, viginti. Trentrigintata.

      “Pick up your feet.” The man’s breath smelled of ham. “I won’t carry you up the stairs.”

      Berni’s voice: “I can carry her.”

      Octoginta. Nonaginta. After this, they would be in such trouble. Berni would never be chosen for the academy.

      Berni began to cough, the sound deep-throated and animal. It echoed in the glassy space, and the man told her to hush. Outside rain fell gently, little more than mist. The doorman let Grete cower behind Berni, but he kept his grip on Berni’s arm. A few times she spasmed, hand to her mouth, suppressing the quakes of her lungs.

      “You girl . . . know better . . .” In the noise on the street, Grete lost parts of what the man was saying, but watched in a panic as he tapped the lid of Berni’s white box.

      “We didn’t steal anything.” Berni’s voice, very close to Grete’s left ear, squeaked a bit. “It’s the host. We bake it at St. Luisa’s, then take it to the churches.”

      His chin puckered in disbelief. Grete could imagine the sisters’ reaction when they were returned to the orphanage by the police. Let’s run, Berni, she wanted to shout, let’s just run—but she couldn’t form the words, and she knew even if they ran СКАЧАТЬ