Checker and the Derailleurs. Lionel Shriver

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ don’t know.”

      “What a critic.”

      “That room is dangerous!” he burst out.

      “Sure,” she said casually. “Being alive is dangerous.”

      “The red ones.”

      “Yes?”

      “The red ones,” Check repeated, shaking his head. “I don’t know.”

      Somehow she seemed pleased with his reaction, though Check had said nothing nice.

      “You sell those things?”

      “Not very hard. Nobody understands them. But once they’re cooled they don’t matter. I like hot glass.” Her eyes glittered like the sleet that afternoon.

      Checker returned the next night, on time. Rahim was on his mind, for earlier he’d visited the Iraqi in the basement, where it was hot and dank and boring, and they couldn’t think of any girls. Yet it had been impossible to stay moody, with the rise coming up through his All-Stars all the way to his throat. In the park the car radios had played the right songs, marathon; at six o’clock the sky was purple; the pavement was still icy from Sunday’s sleet, radiant with orange streetlights. The river swept the skyline into dizzy, turgid swirls.

      The broom swished around the concrete, curling dust like whirlpools under Hell Gate, glass tinkling in its wake like the shores of the East River; Checker could feel every individual hair of the brush stroke the floor. Unloading the annealer, he loved all the student pieces. Lurching off center, bubbled and drooped, each vase and goblet charmed him, each bowl would hold ripe fruit.

      All the while he could feel Syria as heat source move from room to room. He liked it best when he was perfectly between the two of them, the woman and the furnace; the sweat would pour evenly down his body. Each drop traced his spine like the tip of a finger.

      Later, the cleanup done, she showed him how to work the furnace; Check felt on friendlier terms with the animal once he could control it. Finally she let him thread one of those sturdy pipes into the mass itself, and wear his own pair of glasses. The heat stung; he wondered how she got used to it. His face stiffened and his knuckles sung. Sweat showered down his chest. Even with the dark glasses he couldn’t focus on the glass itself—it shifted uneasily before him, rippling like flesh. He could tell when the pipe hit the glass only from a tugging, a nagging when he pulled it back. Awkwardly he withdrew a drizzling glob, like Little Jack Horner pulling a plum from a pie.

      She showed him how to blow the first bubble, putting her mouth around the pipe. Checker stared.

      “Don’t just stand there. This is your piece.”

      When he pressed his lips to the metal he was surprised how hard it was to blow; nothing happened. The sharp taste of steel mingled with something musty. Syria.

      “It’s too cold now. Heat it up.”

      When he was finished, Check had made a tiny cup he knew was ridiculous, though that didn’t keep him from being enormously proud. It was thick, with a lip that curled accidentally inward, but smooth and round, later to rest perfectly in his hand, like a small breast.

      It was three in the morning; only the glow of the furnace lit the shop. Checker lay on one of the benches, exhausted, having perspired away about five pounds. Syria turned down the gas, so the furnace settled to a steady purr; it was easier to talk. She leaned up against a post and studied her new assistant. Syria herself seemed a little tired, softer; her hair had relaxed.

      “So what’s your story?” she asked.

      Checker laughed. “I drum.” His voice vibrated the bench. “I love—things.”

      She waited.

      “I love this,” he explained. “Glass and color. Heat. Work. Shapes. And shit, the sky tonight—”

      “Fuchsia.”

      “You saw!”

      “You own the sky?”

      “Yes.”

      She was so jagged, he was surprised by the roundness of her laughter. “Well, so do I.”

      “I own every color,” Check went on. “I own this neighborhood. Most of all I own the Triborough.”

      “I’ve wondered whose that was.”

      “Mine. Shore to shore. We’re in love.”

      “I’m jealous.”

      Checker’s whole body was humming; the furnace and the rhythm of their voices were both trembling in the wooden bench now, as if a good song was playing loud. He closed his eyes. “My bicycle is jealous, too. Sure, Zefal’s pretty, thin, tight. But there’s something about a frame so big. Like a tall woman.” Hmm. At that point Checker decided to open his eyes and shut his mouth. Syria had edged away to turn down the annealer.

      “And what’s your story?”

      “When you’re twenty-nine, there isn’t one anymore, there are hundreds. And I don’t feel like telling any of them tonight.”

      “Don’t,” Checker chided.

      “Maybe later,” she said more kindly. “You said you had a problem tonight. What is it?”

      Checker explained about Rahim. “So,” he finished, “I need a woman.”

      “Common complaint. Where will you get yours?”

      Lying on the bench, Checker felt a wave of nausea ripple from his feet to his throat, just as the elation had risen earlier that evening. He swallowed, the taste of his own saliva sour. He waited for the sickness to pass, and used the silence to make his next question seem to be changing the subject.

      “Are you married?”

      “No.”

      “Why not?”

      “By the time most men reach thirty they’re picking out their headstones already. All that’s left is to fill in the dates. I’m not interested.”

      “Do you ever want to get married?”

      “Stop it.”

      “Stop what?”

      “Go ahead.”

      Check said nothing.

      “I said, go ahead.”

      Maybe something flew into the furnace, something live. A strange smell passed over the two of them, like singed hair. His saliva was viscous from dehydration. “Syria,” he said thickly, “will you marry Rahim?”

      “That’s better,” said Syria. “Now we’re there.” She sat down on the bench at his feet. “Now, you explain to me why I should do such a thing.” She patted his ankles.

      “To do me a favor.”

СКАЧАТЬ