“Whatever you can tell me,” Finch said. Something that makes you more real.
She looked out over the shimmering water. “You don’t really want to know. There’s nothing I can tell you that will help you more than what’s already in your head.”
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “What’s really wrong?”
She didn’t blink or turn away. But she didn’t answer, either. Just took his hand.
“Do you still want to follow me?”
* * *
She led him past an abandoned factory lit up like a burning ship. As if displaced from the Spit. Windows slick with the spray of rain. Came closer, saw that a neon-red fungus had colonized it. Heard Partials hooting and mocking someone a couple streets over. Even saw a couple of quickly disappearing shadows that might’ve been gray caps. Part of the risky thrill of finding a bootleg party. Like they were doing something dangerous. Kept his hand on his gun the whole time.
Finally found the guts of a building whose roof had been blown off. Every inch of its exterior glittered with graffiti. Finch had completely lost his bearings. Was trusting Sintra.
The weight and sound of the rain lifted off them. They were sopping, but didn’t care. So was everyone else.
“It was a theater,” she whispered, moving up against him. “I saw a play here once about Voss Bender’s life. I saw it with my father when I was fourteen. Afterward, we got ice cream from a sidewalk vendor. Then we took a long walk down to the park. There were so many people around. The night was beautiful. It was one of the first times I’d dressed up for anything. My mother was sick, so she didn’t come along. But I spent all night telling her about it.”
“Stop,” Finch said.
“A year later, the war broke out again and the park was gone. The people couldn’t come out onto the streets. It was too dangerous. My mother had gotten better, but my father had lost his arm to a fungal bullet. He couldn’t work for a long time he was so depressed. He’d been a journalist. I knew about my native heritage, but it wasn’t until then that I learned more, because my father returned to his roots. It was a way of making himself whole again, I think.”
“Stop,” he said again. Each detail making her more distant.
“What about you, John?” she asked. “What do you want to tell me? Is there anything you want to tell me?” Tone between bitterness and sympathy. Maybe even affection.
“No.”
“Does it make it better or worse if I tell you these things?”
Daring him to look at her. But he wouldn’t.
“Worse,” he admitted. Defeated.
“Because you can’t tell me anything back,” she said. “Because you don’t trust me. Shouldn’t trust anyone.”
Because then you’re not who I need you to be.
Hugged him then. Whispered in his ear, “Do you understand now? We’re alone, John, even when we’re together.” Kissed his cheek.
Didn’t want it, but took it.
“Let’s just find the party.” Needed a drink. Bad.
* * *
Down a stairwell. Through a hallway picked clean of detail. The deeper they went, the more light. From gas lamps. From naked bulbs. From flurries of candles unwinding along their path.
People began to appear out of the half-light. Couples kissing. Sidewalk barbers, driven inside. A man leaning against the wall, offering cigars. More vendors. Wine. Drugs. Food. Candy. Pots and pans. Watches. Fabric. The smell of something spicy.
Finch bought a bottle of wine with three packets of gray cap food. The man popped the cork for them. Finch handed the bottle to Sintra. She took a manly swig, laughed, pulled him close as if in apology. Kissed him, her tongue in his mouth. Connected to every nerve in his body. She pulled away to hand him the bottle, whispered, “Isn’t that better than words, John?” He drank long and deep. Sweet, full-bodied. Exploding against his taste buds. Coursing into his body. Followed by a bitter aftertaste. But he didn’t care. He really didn’t care.
Down more stairs. The sounds of the party now muted, now blaring. As if they were getting closer, then farther away. They came to a doorway with a black sheet draped across it. A small man with a slurred, gritty voice and dirty black hair took their payment: three food pods and the pocketknife Sintra had brought. Let them through, into light.
A raised platform, looking down at a huge room that must have been used for storage once. Hundreds of people occupied that space now, the sound of their voices muffled yet deafening. Gray archways surrounded the room. No way to defend the space. From anything. Oil lamps hung from each archway, made a buttery light that created shadow even as it swept away the darkness. A strong smell of sweat.
A band played in the far left corner. Cello. A drum made from trashcan lids. An old accordion. People were exchanging pieces of paper nearby. Probably stories, poetry, artwork. The gray caps didn’t care, but the Partials did. Noticed a few silent, large men at the fringes. Probably bouncers hired by the vendors.
Finch took another swig of wine. The last time he’d seen so many people in such a small space he’d been fourteen and his father had taken him to a reception thrown by the Frankwrithe viceroy three months after an armistice with House Hoegbotton. Stiff and cramped in a suit. His father had introduced him to each dignitary, and afterward, while they were distracted, Finch had snuck into the viceroy’s rooms and taken the papers his father needed.
Recklessly, he crushed Sintra to him, put his arm around her neck, let his hand touch her breast. She turned into him. Shouted in his ear, “Should we go down there?”
He nodded, and they descended into the chaos. Relaxed into it. Despite seeing the tawdry cheapness of it. Too good at playing a role not to know when another role was being played out in front of his eyes.
The frantic, almost hysterical dancing of the women. The faces rising toward them masklike in that half-light. The hesitant rhythm of the band. As if the Partials would break in at any second. How much alcohol everyone was drinking. Quickly, just in case.
More wine. Another kiss from Sintra. Thought he saw on her face a look close to desperation. Or was it resignation?
They made their way to the far end. Next to the band. Joined the dancers. A man and woman, both shirtless, careened into them. Disappeared again in a whirl of arms. Another couple up close to each other, slow as the music was fast. The pungent tang of some drug. A smell like incense. The bodies around them became like one body. Only to fall apart, like the limbs in the rebel safe house. Heads. Legs. Arms. Wyte charging out to meet the Partials.
Finch needed more wine, then. For both of them. Smiles from people around them. A shared secret. Life could be good. If you could only get far enough out of yourself. Abandoning. Forgetting.
A song ended. As it had ended before, and before that, too. But this time Sintra said, “Follow me.” Led him by the hand into the darkness of a doorway where a lamp had failed. The sudden touch of cold stone. On the other side, a catacomb of rooms. The light from the party already receding. Snuffed out. Men and women had paired off here. Moans, murmurs, a sudden heat.
They found a section of wall around a corner. Drank the last of the wine. Let the bottle fall, and, broken, roll to the side. She was unbuttoning her white blouse, a wild light in her eyes. He was helping her, suddenly frantic in his need. His mouth was on her breasts. Tongue on her delicate brown nipple. Coming back up to her mouth with his. She gasped. Unbuttoned his pants. His cock throbbing as she took it in her hand. He let out a long sigh. His fingers curled through her hair.