The Grand Dark

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On his way out of Machtviertel, however, Largo had a coughing fit so violent that he had to stop on the side of the road. When he blew his nose with a handkerchief, what came out was as black as soot. As good as the morphia made him feel, he was still relieved to put Machtviertel behind him.

It was a long ride back to the office.

CHAPTER SEVEN (#ulink_61e0c015-7dbf-585e-930a-b85ba7f1813f)

Herr Branca set down his pen and applauded mirthlessly when Largo arrived. “The prodigal son returns, and in one piece. Did you receive a warm welcome in Machtviertel?”

“I was greeted with open arms. At least by the crows.”

“And the people?”

“They were more reluctant, but I successfully delivered the parcel.”

“Merely reluctant?” said Branca. “I hadn’t heard that shyness was common among the denizens of the district.”

“Maybe ‘shyness’ isn’t the right word. They certainly weren’t used to receiving deliveries.”

Branca leaned on his desk. “What were they like, your reluctant customers?”

Largo thought carefully about his answer. He’d formulated a story on the ride back, but the morphia let his mind drift and now he couldn’t remember much of it. “There was a man and woman. An old couple. They didn’t want to come to the door at first, but I talked to them until they were reassured that it was safe to accept the package.”

“That was very professional of you. It was just the two of them then?”

“As far as I could see.”

Branca put out his hand. “Do you have your receipt book?” Largo handed it to him and he looked it over. “That’s quite a signature. Is it the man’s or woman’s?”

Even light-headed from the morphia, Largo remembered the most basic rule of lying: stay as close to the truth as possible. “The man’s. It is a bit of a mess, isn’t it? His hand shook a bit as he signed it.”

“That explains it, then. I take it there was nothing else interesting or notable at the Black Palace?”

Largo looked at his supervisor. “You’ve been there?”

Branca placed the receipt book in a desk drawer. “Many times,” he said. “I wasn’t born behind this desk, you know. I made my share of deliveries when I was your age.”

Largo tried to picture a young Branca riding a bicycle through traffic, cutting around pedestrians, cabs, and speeding military juggernauts. It was like something from a dream of flying—very strange and extremely hard to believe.

“I’m sure it’s changed since you were there, but it was my first trip so I’m not sure what qualifies as unusual. Perhaps if I go back sometime—”

He immediately regretted saying it. What if the bastard takes it as an invitation to make me the company’s representative to the hinterlands? I’ll have cancer in a year and no tips to show for it.

Herr Branca turned his head and looked at Largo from an odd angle. “Did you hurt yourself on the way back?” he said.

Largo looked down at himself. “I don’t think so.”

“Your hand is bleeding.”

Damn, he thought. He wiped his fingers on his coat. “I’m fine, sir. It’s just a little ink.”

“Ink from what?”

Damn again. Why didn’t I wash my hands on the way in? he thought. It was the morphia, of course. He promised himself to be more careful in the future.

“Just something I found on the street on the way out of Machtviertel. To tell you the truth, I didn’t even read it.”

“Do you still have it?”

Largo felt stuck like a butterfly with a pin through its middle. If he said he didn’t have it Branca would ask why he didn’t say that in the first place. And what if Branca searched him and found the paper and the morphia? That would be the end of all his dreams. Besides, he didn’t really owe them anything—although thinking about Margit made him feel a bit unsure. Still, he couldn’t think of any alternatives, so he gave in. Largo patted his pockets, trying to look calm and composed. He smiled when he seemed to discover the paper in one of them, and reluctantly handed it over.

Branca opened the sheet and scanned it slowly. “Did you read this?”

“No, sir. What does it say?”

“Seditionist trash,” said Branca. “You say you found it on the ground?”

“Yes, sir.”

Branca turned the paper over and looked at the back. “It’s remarkably free of dirt. And the ink was still wet when you found it? I can’t say I’m surprised. Machtviertel is swarming with radical hotheads. It’s all the dust, you see. It addles the brain.”

Largo nodded, trying to look as if he agreed completely. “That makes sense.”

Branca looked back at the paper. “You should be careful about what trash you pick up in the future. Your policeman friend—Tanz, I believe, is his name—was here earlier. After the incident this morning, I can’t imagine what he’d think if he found this on you.”

Just hearing the undercover officer’s name made Largo tense. The sweet calm of the morphia all but disappeared. He thought about the Sergeant and what he’d said earlier. “An anarchist and a drug addict? At headquarters they’d feed him to the dogs.”

“I see what you mean. I’ll be more careful in the future.”

Branca wadded up the paper and threw it in the trash. From a desk drawer, he removed a new receipt book and handed it to Largo. “For this afternoon’s deliveries.”

Largo was putting the book in his shoulder bag when something occurred to him. “Excuse me. This book is new, as was the one you gave me this morning. If you don’t mind me asking, will I always get new receipt books?”

Branca held out the previous receipt book so that Largo could see the red stains along the edges. “This one is soiled. We can’t have our customers signing dirty books, can we?”

“No, of course not.”

“I’m glad you approve.” Branca took out a pocket watch and checked it against the office clock. “You had a long ride this morning. You may take an early lunch so that you can go home and fetch your knife.”

“Thank you,” said Largo.

“And wash that filth off your hands before you contaminate another book.”

“Right away, sir.”

Branca picked up a Trefle that sat on the side of his desk and waited for the operator. He flicked his wrist, waving the back of his hand. “That’s all, Largo. You may go.”

“I’ll be back soon.”

“How delightful.”

Largo went to the employee toilet near the loading dock and washed the red ink off his hand with a coarse bar of gray soap.

With the extra time, Largo was tempted to have another drop of morphia, but he couldn’t afford to be foggy-headed again. He checked an inside pocket of his coat and found the vial of cocaine. It was just small enough that the Sergeant hadn’t found it earlier, especially after he’d been distracted by the morphia. Largo thought it over and decided to use a little powder when he was back at his flat. It would sharpen him up for his afternoon deliveries and still leave enough to share with Remy in the evening.

With those warm thoughts, the morning was already fading away.

When he reached Little Shambles, the traveling carnival he’d seen earlier in the butchers’ quarter was there, giving another impromptu performance. Largo hung at the back of the crowd at first, not watching the show but looking at the people, scanning the ragged mob for the police. When he didn’t see any he got closer—but stayed on his bicycle in case he had to get away quickly.

The performers were the same ones he’d seen in the morning. Keeping with the habits of Little Shambles, the clowns didn’t juggle meat this time but bottles of beer and whiskey. The beautiful acrobats did tumbling runs in the dirty street. There were some contortionists he’d missed earlier, bending themselves in unpleasant ways that reminded Largo of the convulsing man. Not wanting to relive that moment, he went around to the far edge of the crowd, where the chimeras were performing.

The tiger-suited man was there, barking orders at the small catlike creatures. Now Largo finally got a good look at them. They were hairless and had large, comical ears. The bare skin along their sides and legs changed colors as they went through their routines. At one moment they were striped with purples and at another spotted red. When they ran and jumped, they pulsed with a dozen colors, as if fireworks were going off under their skin. So beautiful, he thought. To be able to create such things.

He could have spent all afternoon there, but he needed to go to his flat, have lunch, and get back to the office without being late for once. It was heartbreaking to leave such beauty behind for something as mundane as another round of idiotic deliveries, but when he remembered the cocaine in his coat, it wasn’t quite as depressing.

After pedaling the last few blocks, Largo ran up the filthy stairs to his flat and locked the door. He put the harness and knife on first, got his bag, and then went to the tin box under his mattress and took a few coins for lunch and a Trefle call. Before he left, he laid a short, thick line of cocaine on the back of his hand and sniffed it up. At the bottom of the stairs, the rush and sense of well-being and beauty were overwhelming. Largo took off on his bicycle, thinking of Remy naked in her flat, her skin crawling with light and colors, catlike and perfect.